


The Chamber of Snake(s)

by SwordSoup



Series: Wizard's omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Child Abuse, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Diagon Alley, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quidditch, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, eventually, hes much more involved but he doesn’t replace Harry as the boy who lived, it kind of starts here?, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24819460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordSoup/pseuds/SwordSoup
Summary: It's really quite an unnecessary question, at this point. Still, a Demon, an Angel, and a Chosen One all find themselves wondering why a school is so adamant in trying to kill its students. They return, either way, to a year chock full of overlarge snakes, relative incompetence, and too many complications with paperwork.It's as normal as ever.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wizard's omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616059
Comments: 163
Kudos: 399





	1. The Burrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the second fic of this series! I hope that I haven't kept you all waiting too long. I've been in a weird place. Anyways! I have something VERY important to request of you all.
> 
> I am trying to decide on ships for each character in this ship. I already have a few ideas, but I want input from all of you as well! I've created a google form for people to fill out if they'd like to give input on what ship they want each character to be in.
> 
> https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeygEOsslr8HfgSDJ_SNaFQSFioLTPzqvg91MYpYwx9MkuK3Q/viewform?usp=sf_link
> 
> Pllease please please tell me whatever ideas you've got! I'm open to pretty much anything.

It has been one, solid month of rest between years at Hogwarts.

That’s what one might say -- if any time within an Angel, Demon and Chosen One’s life could faithfully be labeled as anything but “a bizarre whirlwind of events and strange yelp reviews.” As breaks went, it had been rather nice. They’d gone up to Tadfeild for a handful of visits already, Crowley and Aziraphale hiding the aura of Harry’s magic enough that the boy was able to show a few of the more mundane talents he’d learned. Adam, of course, had attempted to one-up him immediately, only quelled when Harry pulled out Hedwig and reminded Adam that yes — while he had magic — he was  _ not  _ a wizard. And, he had not got an owl. 

Still, they got on well, as they had since the first time they’d met. Anathema was keen to learn about the school, almost looking  _ jealous  _ when they told her of the battle nearing the end of the year. Naturally, this story had spread from her to Adam and so forth, warping so irreparably that by the time it circled back to Harry, Pepper had told him she’d heard that he exploded the back of someone's turban and discovered a  _ man  _ on their scalp. After scolding him for his apparent infringement of religious rights, he’d corrected her. Of course — this new story had fascinated The Them  _ far  _ more than garlic-turbins had. 

After a week in the tiny village, it had seemed almost exactly the right time to take their leave. They said their goodbyes, happy to return and visit again sometime soon, and walked forward to the other half of their life, with a significant amount of witchcraft afoot.

(The witchcraft had been a bit of an issue when Sargent Shadwell and Madame Tracy had come in for an afternoon picnic. With enough negotiating, The Them had been persuaded to pretend that Harry wasn’t a famous wizard. It had taken a  _ lot  _ of bribery.)

“Crowley, dear, would you  _ please  _ stop antagonizing that bird and get over here?” 

Aziraphale looks up to The Serpent, currently taking residence in his favorite bookshelf — fourth down, three to the left — and rolls his eyes. The snake makes a hissing noise that sounds suspiciously like a groan before it’s form goes plummeting toward the ground with a harsh  _ slap,  _ a man with bright, fiery red hair dangling about his shoulder appearing in the wake. Crowley rubs a palm against his eye and shivers, yawning, trying to ignore the noise of indignant annoyance from the owl perched above him.

“Hng- ‘m sleeping.”

“Not anymore,” Harry says helpfully, kneading out a pile of swiftly crumbling dough, the white of it bright against his red shirt and dark skin, his hair falling into his eyes. His glasses dip farther down his nose, and he screws his face up, pushing them back up. “Come bake.”

“I don’t-“ Crowley waves a hand in disinterest, but crosses toward them nonetheless, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek and  _ clearly  _ relishing the tint of pink that appears there. “I don’t eat. Food. Anything.”

“Well, Harry and I  _ do,  _ and because I’m perfectly willing to indulge you in too-long naps, I think you can spare this,” Aziraphale says -- a soft, wickedly innocent look on his face that seems to taunt Crowley -- while lining a cookie sheet with parchment paper. A moment of fidgeting later, and his hand is clean enough that he pats it against Crowley’s shoulder, leaving no residue, still smiling. “Dear boy, it’s only  _ cookies.” _

Now- a Demon like Crowley -- gone native, lived on earth for 6000 years, in love with an Angel -- knows very well that nothing is ever  _ just cookies  _ with Aziraphale. On the other hand, a Demon like Crowley -- oddly charming, nice, even though he never admits it -- is more than willing to indulge the entity he loves.

_ “Fine,”  _ he seethes in fake outrage, swaggering  _ very  _ slowly toward the sink and shoving his hands into a hot spray of water. So hot, in fact, that he yelps and leaps away from it, glaring swords-and-daggers into Harry’s back at the muffled laugh that emanates from him. Still, hyperbolic anger aside, he steps toward them and slams his palms into the counter, a good amount of flour rising from his intrusion and powdering the black crook of his glasses. “Alright. What am I supposed to be — Y'know — doing?”

“Help Harry — he’s the chef.” Aziraphale points to the boy, currently enshrouded in a cloud of caked-on flour and rolling out a misshapen ball of dough. He seems to be struggling some, but the determined look on his face is enough to convince Crowley that  _ no,  _ he is not going to interfere with  _ that.  _ So, he picks up a new ball of dough, smashing it enough that it turns into a vague lump in a cookie shape. Then, he sets it on the metal cookie sheet — and, deciding that his work is done after three cookies — he turns to watch the proceedings. 

Aziraphale stands over the oven, fiddling with it despite the fact that he had  _ not  _ had an oven before last summer. He’s dressed in something familiar -- in the way that breathing might be familiar for a human. Tartan, beige, blue and brown, with a small hint of red on his bow tie, a gag gift given to him by Crowley. Something permanent, innocuous, lives within his movements, smooth and warm like a blanket you might’ve had from childhood. He looks bright and beautiful in the light of the afternoon through the windows with white hair haloed in yellows, and Crowley can’t help but watch, enamored. They had known each other for an inconceivable eternity. He  _ would  _ allow himself a moment to savor what was the love of everything within him.

Harry seems to be enjoying the presence of the Angel as well, looking up and smiling at his two godparents every so often, still pressing cookie-lumps ugly enough to make Hagrid recoil onto his cookie sheet. In the end, the cookies end up mangled and horribly burned. Aziraphale enjoyed eating, but that did  _ not  _ make him a good cook. Either way, this doesn’t stop them from setting out toward the Burrow with what Aziraphale would probably call “pep” in their step, while Crowley would describe it as “demonic influence that makes the trip hard to bear.” They stop at a convenience store for a bag of chocolate chip cookies, anyway. 

The plains below The Burrow are fair and sprawling, with reedy grass and willows that sway within the wind of the area. The massive structure should seem intimidating — imposing, even, within its wide and jagged construction, angles jutting forward and back -- but instead, a sense of peace hangs around it. Comfort, even, humming with a sense of contended mirth. Smoke billows from its third chimney, a novelty to the absolute antithesis to the picket-fence normality that so many seemed to cherish. Where some familiar homes are static, decorated by someone they’d paid for and boring to a fault, the Weasley’s home looked warm, welcoming, and absolutely  _ hideous  _ in a way that made you cackle like it was a private joke with the world. 

Crowley is the first to knock, stepping back once the action is finished and wondering if anyone in the sprawling home will even manage to hear. He tucks his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders upward and tucking himself into the nook that is Harry-And-Aziraphale, glancing backward with his lip curled up in irritation at the sky, as if telling his Mother to make the Weasleys  _ hurry it up. _

He’s snapped from this soon enough — Aziraphale and Harry as well — as the door bangs open, thudding against the inner wall. There stands freckles, red hair, a warm smile, and patched clothes — Mrs. Weasley’s bright and hospitable beam so bright it looks as if it must hurt.

“Hello!” She leans forward and gestures for them to enter. “Do come in --  _ bloody hell, it’s hot --  _ we’ve been expecting you!”

Harry, first, then Aziraphale, then Crowley, the latter two looking positively out of place with their long-sleeved outfits, but no less fascinated by the home they enter. A greet, sweeping staircase rises upward before them, behind a small, open area — a mudroom, in which to deposit your shoes. The first floor seems to be the largest, with ceilings higher than needed, and several rooms, open and spotless but messy regardless, scattered about. 

Molly Weasley ushers them into the kitchen and hands them their tea, brusquely pushing the twins out of the room when they try to re-deliver their toilet seat to Harry. Eventually, Ron runs into the room and yanks Harry away, promising that  _ no,  _ mom, we aren’t going to harass the ghoul, and  _ no,  _ mom, I haven’t even  _ seen  _ any gnomes lately. 

They eat tea and cookie — far less burnt than Aziraphale and Harry’s, with a nutty taste to them that hints at almonds — in silence, Crowley content only to sip his drink and ignore the offer of food. 

“The letters should be coming soon,” she remarks, remaining on the topic of the six children currently residing in the house and attending Hogwarts. Crowley’s yellow eyes narrow beneath his glasses, the tiniest hiss of annoyance slipping passed his pursed lips as he is reminded of Albus. Aziraphale, too, manages to darken — even if his physical appearance stays as stoically calm and inviting. Molly, thankfully, does not seem to notice. “And you lot need to shop for the year, don’t you!”

“Ah- yes!” Aziraphale smiles again, setting his tea on the chipped saucer below it. For some reason, the tiny plate it resides on suddenly finds itself attached to a quizzical bit of porcelain that had not been there for a  _ very  _ long time, unbroken again. Small miracles and all. He could spare them enough. “I need to restock the larvae repellent.” He shakes his head in disgust. “They’re positively  _ ruinous  _ once they reach my books!”

“Angel, I think bugs are too scared to come anywhere near you,” Crowley remarks. “But, yeah, I guess we do. ‘Ave gotta buy some new supplies.” He waves a hand. “Some fancy robes. Eh- you  _ know,  _ gotta have dazzle out the wahoo.”

Molly laughs at this, setting her cup down and trying not to spill the liquid within it. “I think you have that enough,  _ Anthony.  _ Do you two  _ know  _ how much the parents talked about you this year?”

They exchange a glance — Crowley, shrugging, Aziraphale giving her a briefly confused smile.

“You two made the… Made everything look like nothing,” she explains eagerly. “Was more hustle and bustle about “that soft Professor Fell” and “that bizarre Professor Crowley. I think they thought that you were some sort of- of  _ fae  _ at first, Zira.” Then, her gaze darts to Crowley, and she grins in a youthful sort of way that is reminiscent of a very specific group of red-headed pupils of theirs. “I think they thought you were going to eat someone,” she continues, nodding at their twin, surprised expressions. “Some people started questioning Albus’s sanity at the hiring decisions.”

“Perhaps they should,” Aziraphale remarks under his breath, raising his drink to hide the whisper of his own disappearing manners away, sinking it into the glass. But, when he looks back up, Molly has fixed him with a bit of a warped expression. Not quite judgment. Not quite  _ acceptance,  _ either, and he flushes. “I-  _ oh dear, I am sorry -  _ I just mean-“

He steels himself with an empty, cajoling sigh, trying to dissuade himself from his anxiety and managing not to fail, somehow. 

“Well- he hasn’t been very... charitable, to Harry, has he?”

Molly narrows her gaze, leaning in closer in equal measures curiosity and suspicion. “What do you mean?”

“Well- for starters,” Crowley drawls, letting out a useless huff as he straightens in his seat, one ankle still tucked neatly across his knee. “He stuck Harry up in the looney bin- th- that- the one with his aunt and uncle. Real pieces of work, yknow Assholes.”

“They- they hurt him very badly,” Aziraphale says. “And Albus allowed him to stay there. Minerva was hesitant, even. I- I can hardly blame her.”

Now -- the reactions of those sitting in this room call for a brief interlude.

Molly Weasley, as far as anyone could tell, was a kind soul. She didn’t disprove this now, as she settled her teacup down, retreating into the deepness of her mind and stuttering through the sentence she’d been fed. She’d been grown into a poor family, naturally -- but a pure-blooded one none the less -- and was well aware of what it meant to be the  _ less-fortunate. Poor. Destitute,  _ with patched clothes and sunken stomachs and eyes that quivered with tears when they saw just a glimpse of a spiraling light above their own, heavy darkness. She had found that light many years ago, and enjoyed the knowledge that her sadness had never made a monster out of her. The one thing, though, that could send her into a true, agonizing rage — the type that raked her tongue across hot coal and made the words sent straight from her chest into something sharper than fire — was a threat against those that she scared about. Those that she cared for, more often than not, were her children.

Harry, naturally, met these criteria perfectly.

“He-“ she swallows and continues to choose her words, carefully. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Threw him around,” Crowley says with a near-snaggletoothed snarl that extends from the edges of his lips and down to his shoes. “So, we stole ‘im.”

“And Albus just let him  _ remain  _ there?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he hisses out. “Apparently they’re all up in fucking  _ hysssterics _ cause they can’t find Albus’s little Chosen One. It’s  _ fantastic _ .”

“What are we planning to say to them?” Aziraphale asks, a soft lipped frown on his face. He licks his lips and sighs. “Oh, look here! We stole Harry’s,  _ apologies _ , but we would really rather you did not have him back. Leave and don’t come back, bookstores closed, Bentley’s out.”

“Love.” Crowley flips his head lazily, expression returning to a languid smile, snakelike. Pointed, but with a fond, loving sense to it, as he stares at Aziraphale. “I dunno what they think they’ve got going on, but we’re more than equipped to take them  _ out _ . Only if we needed,” he adds hastily.

“If we needed,” Aziraphale agrees, nodding to himself. 

“If you  _ needed.”  _ Molly scoffs. “I’m not  _ quite  _ sure what to tell you, either of you.” 

Then, with a soft sigh, her expression drops into something almost wistful. A flame within her chest goes unlit, and she settles. “I have gone a very long time being rather fond of Albus. But — I don’t make it my business to support something like this.”

“That’s quite understandable.” 

(Emotions are a tricky thing, Aziraphale thinks, as he brings his tea to his lips and finishes it. Even now, after so much of what Heaven has done, he cannot help but miss an absence of what might have once been possible.)

So, he nods and accepts this as readily as he can. “Onto a lighter topic! How  _ are _ you doing, Molly?”

\---

The clock in the kitchen was a funny thing. There were seven hands -- one for each person in the family, presumably -- and a wild, varying array of “times.” The hour-twelve marker said “prison.” The hour-three marker, quite unfortunately, said “mortal peril.” Luckily enough, each name was in a relatively safe position. Harry, sated with this knowledge, turns from the object and grins at Ron. It’s the first morning since they’d arrived, and he already feels right at home. He’s settled right next to Ron, and the other boy peers curiously to his left, where Aziraphale has arranged himself, staring happily down at his food-covered plate. Crowley, absent, sits in the living room, poking at a book.

All in a sudden flurry of movement, a long, red-haired girl in a lilac nightgown comes stumbling into the room. She yawns, then looks up, wide-eyed and shrouded by hair, before immediately running right from the room. 

“Ginny,” Ron explains, burying his head in his food, eating a pancake rather fervently. “M’ sister. You saw her at the station last year. She’s been talking about you all summer.”

“Was something wrong?” Aziraphale frowns. “I do hope that we haven’t upset her in being here.”

Fred laughs out a loud guffaw, dropping his fork in the process and sending a freckled grin in his twin’s direction. “All due respect, Mr. Fell, but she’s just obsessed with Harry. Probably be wanting your autograph soon.” Then, he catches his mother’s eyes and shrinks, a sheepish smile in place on his cheeks as he returns to his food. The room falls silent again, until Fred sees fit to yawn, sending George into a fit of exhausted groaning as well.

“Blimey,” he starts, sighing. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go back to bed and-”

“You will  _ not,”  _ Mrs. Weasley reprimands firmly. “It’s your own fault you stayed up all last night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me again; they’re getting completely out of hand again-”

“Oh,  _ mom-” _

“You too, George,” she says, glaring at her other son. “And Ron!”

“What’s Harry gonna do?” He protests. “Not like Percy is as entertaining as me-”

“Hey-”

“I’ll help,” Harry interrupts abruptly. He knows what it’s like to resent chores -- and he quite enjoyed having the autonomy of being able to choose when to do them, on occasion. He looks up to Aziraphale, but the Angel only nods, smiling.

“That’s  _ very  _ sweet of you, dear,” Molly begins, “But it’s dull work.”

“None of us have ever seen a de-gnoming,” Aziraphale says, curiosity enough to give the cat a heart attack in his eyes. “It sounds so quaint -- can you make an exception, just this once?”

Molly levels him with an almost confused look, but sighs and nods. “If you’d really like to, I suppose. Do you not get gnomes, wherever you live?”

Crowley, sauntering in, grins. “Never heard of them,” he says, leaning over against the table next to Aziraphale and plunking his elbows across the table. As far as Harry knew, his godfather could’ve invented them. But, he declines to comment and watches as the Demon pushes his glasses up his nose. They know better than to slide off his face, of course, but a habit is a habit.

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley nods. “Well, I suppose if you really wanted. Now- let’s see what Lockhart has to say on the subject.”

From her mantlepiece, she pulls a huge, gold-gilded book, with a rather flattering blonde figure on the front, grinning confidently down at them. From above Harry, he watches as Crowley sticks a tongue out at it, almost on instinct. George, who seems to already know who this “Gilderoy Lockhart” figure is -- name noted on the book in frankly gigantic lettering -- and he lets out a loud, irritated groan.

“Mum,” he whines, “We know how to de-gnome a garden.” 

Mrs. Weasley seems to have noticed Harry’s curious look, and she beams at him.

“Oh, he is marvelous. He knows everything from household pests to how to defeat vampires, it’s a wonderful book-”

“Mum fancies him,” Ron whispers loudly as a way of explanation. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” Mrs. Weasley shoots back, with more pink cheeks than her fair skin had previously possessed. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it."

“We’ll keep them on their toes,” Aziraphale promises, a broad smile in place. He files out behind the rest of the group, saying something that sounds suspiciously like “no faffing about!” accompanied by a fond, albeit annoyed scoff from Crowley. 

The garden is  _ huge.  _ Just as the house is exactly the type of “family home” that the Dursley’s lacked, the garden is as well. If he hadn’t gotten so used to Crowley’s own personal little 

“Garden Of Eden,” Harry would say this sprawl of land was a perfect plot. It’s messy, with weeds and large, curling trees reminiscent of the whomping willow sprawled about. In the middle of it all, a large pond smothered with croaking green frogs reflects the afternoon sunlight. 

“Muggles have garden gnomes too,” Harry blurts, trailing a hand over a delicate, huge pink petal of some plant he’d never seen before. Ron shrugs.

“Yeah, I’ve seen em. They only  _ think  _ they’re gnomes.” His head is half in a large, foreign-berried bush, and he recoils in a sudden movement, dragging a tiny, bald and wrinkled figure out of the plant. It kicks at Ron with pointed feet, shouting squeakily while the other boy flips the creature over to grab it by its ankles. “This is a gnome.”

“Getoff!” It screams, shrill and high with beady eyes flashing about. Then, Ron raises it above his head and starts to swing it _.  _ Noticing the very confused expressions of the people following him, Ron sighs and starts to explain.

“It doesn't hurt them,” he explains hastily, before launching the thing -- still screaming -- twenty feet into the air. “You've just got to make them really dizzy so they can't find their way back to the gnome holes."

Behind them, Crowley nudges an elbow into Aziraphale’s side, grinning. “Remember when I almost did that with Adam, huh?”

“I  _ do  _ remember you suggesting I do something similar to Warlock as well,” Aziraphale huffs, smiling. 

“You tried to kill someone named Warlock?” Ron wrinkles his nose. “Who the bloody hell names their child something like Warlock?”

“Americans,” Harry explains matter-of-factly.

“ _ Muggle  _ Americans,” Crowley adds helpfully. “Weird ones. Very- very weird.”

“Very weird indeed,” Aziraphale mutters as a way of finishing the topic, a hand trailing across the formerly quite rumpled bush. Now, it looks a bit nicer. Crowley glares at it and it stiffens even further into something quite plush indeed.

Fred takes his moment to walk over, eyeing Ron’s gnome -- not quite able to stand yet, in the field a meter over -- and shrugs.

“I bet I could get mine over that stump,” he says, challenging Ron. Very quickly, as the air is filled with flying gnomes and the shrill, terrified screaming of the tiny, dizzy creatures, Harry learns not to feel very bad for the creatures. 

The first one he’d plucked up was  _ almost  _ a target of mercy. Perhaps, it could smell weakness, as he decided to just drop it over a hedge. So, it leaned upward and bit him -- teeth razor-sharp -- on the thumb. He almost couldn’t dislodge it, but still, it went flying in the end, past the hedge, past any of the other gnomes.

George whistles. “That must’ve been fifty feet, Harry. Wow.”

The cut on his finger is sealed with a bit of a miracle-disguised-as-magic, and the tossing round of gnomes resumes. Aziraphale and Crowley watch with bemusement, favoring the task of pruning back a few of the most invasive plants instead. Aziraphale does rather badly at it -- he doesn’t seem to want to hurt the gnomes at all -- but Crowley excels, guiding the Angel with a grimace that masquerades as authentic.

Finally, with Ron watching a little line of them all totter around the fields, it seems that the work has finished, the afternoon sun higher in the sky now. “They’ll be back,” he says sullenly. “Dads soft on em. Thinks they’re funny-”

A door slams, catching each person’s attention. George perks up, shouting that “Dad’s home!” The first in a procession of Weasley’s to go running inside. Harry feels a bit of irrational excitement, now, as he chases Ron inside. 

Mr. Weasley -- slumped in a dining room chair, sipping coffee with his glasses off and his eyes shut -- was a thin, lanky man, just like his children. He had a steadily growing bald spot in the back of his head and wore dark green travel robes, dusty and quite clearly old. If it weren’t for the fact that he beamed with happiness at the sight of his children, Harry might’ve been a bit intimidated. But, the facts were that Arthur Weasley had just as full and kind an energy as his wife, and Harry took an immediate liking to the man.

“What a  _ night,”  _ he mutters, after greeting the rest of his family. “Molly, there were  _ nine  _ raids. Nine! And obviously, old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned.” He takes a long sip of tea and sighs. 

“Find anything cool?” Fred asks him, eager. Visions of enchanted toilet seats and evil books flash through Harry’s mind.

“All I got to was a few shrinking keys and a biting kettle,” the man yawns. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn't my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that's the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness..."

“Why would anyone bother making shrinking door keys?” George asks, nose wrinkling. 

“Muggle baiting,” responds his father in an instant. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it.” He lets out an undignified sort of snort and sweeps a glance across the room, seemingly so consumed by the discussion that he takes no note of the three new figures in the room. “Of course, it's very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking - they'll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they'll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it's staring them in the face... But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn't believe-”

“Like wot?” Crowley interrupts. Mr. Weasley glances over -- about to answer -- and does a double-take.

“Erm- who…?”

“I  _ told  _ you they were visiting!” Mrs. Weasley appears, brandishing a poker for the fireplace like a sword, quite out of place in the summer heat. “It’s Harry and the professors!”

He blinks, blankly -- probably assuming Crowley’s shock of long red hair, drifting along his shoulders nicely, out of a ponytail, was simply another addition to their family. With as many children as they had, Harry thinks flippantly, that doesn’t seem too unlikely.

“Oh. OH!” He blinks in excitement and walks forward, holding a hand out for Harry to shake -- then Crowley, then Aziraphale. “Very pleased to meet you all! Everyone’s been talking about the three of you. Mr. Fell and Crowley, isn’t it?”

Crowley just shrugs. Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the demon and smiles warmly at Mr. Weasley, clasping his hands -- endlessly manicured -- together. “Yes, but Zira and Anthony are fine if you’d like.”

Eventually, when it becomes clear that they’re probably  _ not  _ going to start what has become a very strange conversation about rubber ducks anytime soon, Ron slips past them all and back to Harry, muttering.

“Let's leave them to it,” he suggests. Mrs. Weasley  _ tries  _ to cut into the discussion, but Mr. Weasley seems to have forgotten how to stop speaking. “Come on, we can go upstairs.”


	2. The Entrance and Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..... I know it's pretty soon after I posted the last chapter, but I figured it's best if I give you guys a bit of plot/angst/threatening/excitement now rather than later! I cannot thank you all enough for being so kind about this story already. I haven't been able to answer all comments, but just know that they help me so, so much.
> 
> Now, to answer a few things about the poll from last chapter.
> 
> I have decided! Based on what has been put in the survey, the ship listings are: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, and either Luna/Neville or Ginny/Luna. That one I haven't quite figured out yet.
> 
> Of course, I'm not shitlips terfbangs Rowling, so these pairings are going to have a LOT of work put into them. Draco is going to be developed. Ron is going to be a bit less of a tightass jerk. Hermione is going to be even more feisty than she's ever been. 
> 
> Last thing -- on the poll, someone asked what my posting schedule would be. AS OF RIGHT NOW, my posting schedule is.......... Uh. It doesn't exist. I'm hoping to get at the very least a chapter out every month. If not, please just be patient with me. Life is pretty wild right now, and I don't always have the energy to write something good for all of you :)
> 
> Well, that's it for opening notes! Take care of yourself -- eat some food, drink some water, take your meds, get some sleep -- and I hope you enjoy!

The Burrow was…

The Burrow was just that. A capital-letter place. A home that was at once full of family and a part of that family in itself. It was a strangely endearing place, with passive-aggressive mirrors, pipes that moaned inhumanly at night, and small  _ or  _ large explosions emanating from Fred and George’s room, all completely routine. Harry turned a corner each day to be completely surprised. It wasn’t that he liked the Weasleys more than he adored his own family -- that would  _ never  _ happen, actually, Harry was fiercely protective of his adoration for his godfathers -- but their house, their dynamic, their affection was still new, in some ways. 

They hear from Hogwarts a week from their arrival. It’s a sweltering, unwelcoming morning when Aziraphale returns to Soho to retrieve a specific book for himself. When he returns with his book  _ and  _ seven letters -- five to students, two to professors -- this leads to quite a bit of confusion. When Crowley and Aziraphale explain that they  _ might’ve  _ been keeping Harry hidden from Hogwarts’ watchful eyes, Molly and Arthur turn a blind eye and accept the letters with all their normal exuberance.

“Letters from school,” Mr. Weasley says, as he passes about bundles of yellow parchment and green ink. “Got delivered to Zira while he was out. You two’ve got them too,” he adds, turning to Fred and George as they amble into the living room.

As professors, Crowley and Aziraphale’s letters spoke mostly of the new staff to replace Quirini/Voldemort-Quirrel. There were a few questions of lesson plans and what could be tweaked, but the rest was as standard as ever. Harry’s, on the other hand, asked for quite a bit more, as a student.

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk

Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart

Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart

43 Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart

Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart

Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

“They sound like children books,” Aziraphale remarks, looking over Harry’s shoulder. “Year with the Yeti?” He purses his lips, clearly displeased.

“Oh, so you’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books too!” Fred groans. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan -- bet it's a witch."

One look from Molly and the redhead dips back away and busies himself with his marmalade. Crowley just chuckles and sits up in his seat, setting a cup of coffee down.

“Un _ lesss _ Lockhart is now a  _ woman,  _ I don’t think the teacher will be a lady,” he says, nodding to himself.

“Lockhart’s the new teacher?” Molly rips around in a circle and gapes at them, eyes wide. “My goodness- they-”

“Seems like it,” Aziraphale continues, interrupting her stuttering and holding his own letter up, tapping a perfectly manicured fingertip against the parchment. “He’s a bit silly, isn’t he?”

“I think he’s quaint.” Molly turns back around and busies herself with her work again, ignoring them. George takes this moment to speak, eyes darting up to her father than back to his paper.

"That lot won't come cheap. Lockhart's books are really expensive..."

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Molly tells him, her back still turned away. If one were to stand and intrude on her space to look at her, they would see that she had a slightly worried expression, betraying her carefully neutral tone. "I expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand."

“I think I might have a few Lockhart’s in my bookshop,” Aziraphale lies, suddenly. The bookshop, as if sensing this lie, dims, miles away. “I do  _ not  _ need them, would you like them?”

“Ah.” Molly swivels back around and waves a hand, smiling. “That’s quite generous, but they’re so expensive. I wouldn’t want to put you out of your stock!”

“Augh-” Crowley coughs through a laugh, “He doesn’t sell  _ anything,  _ Molly. ‘S a wonder you’re not bankrupt, isn’t it?” Then, addressing Molly once again, he crinkles his nose and crooks his neck, shrugging. “Jus’ take the books.”

She still looks a bit uncomfortable -- and the two offerers  _ understand --  _ they’ve spent enough time around humans to be familiar with pride. With an ability to refuse, that comes with so many years of forging your own path. Winning your own games. This, naturally, is why they didn’t offer to just buy all of their supplies. They weren’t here to pity any of the Weasley’s or their situation. If the family wanted more of their help, they would provide. If the family didn’t want anything at all, then Crowley and Aziraphale would nod and allow it. 

(In the end, she does take the books.)

Then, the eldest brother of the home walks in. Percy, with hair as flaming as the rest of them and glasses pressed up close to his nose, sweeps his gaze across the room and nods in ways of a greeting. He fidgets with his Hogwarts prefect badge, then steps inside.

“Morning all,” he says. “Lovely day.” He makes to sit down in the one empty chair, then jumps back up in an instant, pulling what looks like a very rumpled feather duster from the fabric of his seat.

“Errol!” Ron cries, taking what is identified as a limp grey owl from Percy’ clutches. Aziraphale winces as the bird hoots, indignant at his rough handling. Ron none too carefully extracts a piece of parchment from beneath the owl’s wing, grinning. “Finally, its Hermione with her answer.” He stands, lifting Errol and setting him on his perch. The bedraggled bird slumps over and chirrups lightly, plucking at the feathers of its wings.

_ “Dear Ron, and Harry if you're there, _

_ I hope you’re both doing alright especially with the professors there and so much happening. I want to know more about what’s happening and if you and Harry are doing ok but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off. _

_ I'm very busy with schoolwork, of course-”  _ Ron looks at this in horror, pausing to let out a little 

“How can she be, we’re on vacation!” 

_ “-and we're going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don't we meet in Diagon Alley? _

_ Let me know what's happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.” _

"Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too," Mrs. Weasley suggests, starting to clear the table and glare at anyone brave enough to leave their plate out. "What're you all up to today?"

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George had been planning to climb up the hill to a small, cut-off area the Weasley’s owned. As long as they flew low enough, they’d be able to practice Quidditch together. Aziraphale and Crowley, of course, had nothing much to do. The Demon thought a bit of general mischief down in the village might be fun -- mischief that Aziraphale had agreed only meant paying a bit extra for the cakes they sold at the bakery adjacent to the homes nearby.

The day was a warm one, and they each took turns on Harry’s Nimbus 2000, zooming stripes past each other and flying just high enough to do loops in midair. Not one person went to bed with energy that night -- save for Percy, who had been reading all day, and Aziraphale, who did not sleep. The next morning they’re awoken by a hideous screeching noise -- the ghoul was getting antsy with the lack of irritation from its guests. They eat a large breakfast of leftover cake, sausages, bacon, and some fresh fruit that Ron had helped Harry pick on the way back from their makeshift Quidditch yard.

Then, they pull on their coats, and Mr. Weasley has what might be called a mild heart attack.

Crowley and Aziraphale, you see, had offered to transport them all to Diagon Alley in a quick and timely matter. When one asked a Demon or Angel to transport them somewhere, this usually meant you thought they would be flying on wings made of fire and brimstone or dove-down and love. Crowley and Aziraphale, as has already been established, had  _ quite  _ a bit more class than that. They’d driven to The Burrow in black metal and style, Crowley pushing the limits of physics, and Aziraphale pushing the demon to  _ slow down.  _

The car -- shining in the summer heat, stagnant and undriven for days now -- sends Arthur Weasley into a ten minute fit of excitement. He traces the wheels, affectionately dipping his fingers against the metal of the car, laughing at the quaint bullet-hole stickers on its back window. As he admires and Crowley supervises, the rest of the group climbs into the car -- now finding itself able to accommodate quite a few more people -- and wait.

“And this- You called it vintage?” Arthur looks up. “Old, right? How is there not a  _ single scratch?” _

Crowley waves a vague hand, accompanied by an expression of the same type. “It’s been dented a  _ few  _ times. Always got it straightened out in the end.”

“Oh, and it did explode once,” Aziraphale pipes cheerfully from beside the Demon, who has begun to slouch irritably. “Along with my bookstore.”

“Oh!” Arthur lets out a laugh. “Was this when that muggle apocalypse was planned? Everything all fire and brimstone?”

“Does  _ everyone  _ know about that?” Crowley purses his lips, then cracks his neck and yanks the driver's side door of the car open, sliding inside and gesturing for the other two left outside to follow. “I thought Adam- ngk- you  _ know,”  _ he throws an arm out wildly, “Took care of it all?”

“Well,” Aziraphale muses, already clutching his knees as Crowley begins to drive. “I suppose- I  _ suppose  _ that muggles are just a bit too different from wizards and witches.”

“Oh, of course,” Molly explains. “We all had a good enough sense of what happened that day. World went all fuzzy.”

_ “World went all fuzzy?”  _ Fred barks out a laugh -- abruptly cut off as he slams his back further into his seat, Crowley cutting a corner rather close. “The backyard started growing apple trees like nobodies business!”

George groans to himself, laying an effeminate hand on his forehead and swooning over to land in Percy’s lap, who promptly shoves him away in disgust. “Those apple pies  _ haunt  _ me.”

“I remember all of it,” Harry says brightly, leaning forward, already used to Crowley’s driving enough that he seems to almost enjoy it. “My aunt and uncle told me it was all a hallucination. They watched the nearest catholic church go up in flames.”

Crowley laughs, swerving harshly and cursing someone in an ancient language just under his breath. Aziraphale glares at him, and he sighs, righting himself on the street. “The kid who started it all really didn’t like church much, eh?”

“I seem to recall him finding it “boring, pompous, and filled with propaganda,” Aziraphale recites. The fondness in his expression might’ve seemed out of place to anyone looking at the Angel -- usually, a burning church or insolent children would send any mild-mannered religious into hysterics -- but Aziraphale had always enjoyed the idea that humans had enough free will to question their religion. They weren’t condemned to hell the moment they opened their mouths. They didn’t go sailing through burning pits of sulfur if they wondered aloud, just for a moment, what it was really all about.

That trail of thought -- and the nausea of most of the passengers -- is abruptly choked off, as Crowley comes to a screeching halt just in front of The Leaky Cauldron. One by one, they file out from the car, all in varying states of disgruntlement. All of them -- other than Arthur, Harry, Aziraphale, and Crowley, who seem to have been too excited by the speed to be worried by something so trivial as “reckless driving,” or were so used to it all by now that they found themselves resenting their own amusement. 

The Leaky Cauldron is as dingy and damp as ever. They pass quickly through the room -- packed, filled with curious people, not even sending their diverse group a passing glance. Soon enough, they’ve swept a path into Diagon Alley.

Bold strokes of auburn and green carve their way down the street. More than an Alley, the marketplace is sprawling, covered in the jagged hues of magical life. Merchants and peddlers, beggars and rich all coalesce to this spot, looking for their wares. They’re about to go inside one store, when-

“Hello!” Hagrid’s familiar tone booms out above the din of the passerbyes as he wades through the crowd toward them all. Arms full of slug repellent, face full of smile lines, he nods eagerly at them all one by one, greeting the two respective groups. “How’s yer summers been?”

“Riveting,” Fred starts. 

“Absolutely riveting,” George pipes in, nodding at his twin in agreement. “Whatcha got there, Hagrid?”

“Oh-” He looks down at the bundles in his arms and chuckles. “Flesh-Eatin’ slug repellent. They’ve been eating the school cabbages.”

“They’ve been  _ wot?”  _ Crowley gapes at him for a moment, before he remembers that he’s surrounded by people, and he does have appearances to keep up. Muttering to himself, he slouches backward, arm still tucked in Aziraphale’s.

“The greenhouses are still more’an protected,” Hagrid assures him, patting his broad, brown-clad chest. “What’d y’ do, put some sorta sealing spell on it all?”

Crowley -- who really didn’t do much advanced spellwork at all, and who was quickly rethinking his lack of education -- shrugs, saved by a new voice joining their discussion.

“Harry!” A flash of dark, curly hair tied up into a ponytail, and Hermione comes running up, her parents chasing after her. “Ron! Oh- All of you, it’s so wonderful to see you again - are you going into Gringotts?”

“Inna minute, I think.” Ron, no longer crowded by his family - Arthur had gone and invited Hermione’s parents for a drink -- steps forward and tugs Harry toward the girl. “Meet you back on the steps?”

She nods, drifting back to join her parents again and announce the plan. Now, Harry turns back to Crowley and Aziraphale, looking at them expectantly. 

“Oh- I’ve already forgotten how all this works,” Aziraphale says miserably, trying to catch an elf that isn’t too busy. Harry, clearly stifling a laugh, watches as Crowley asks a very indignant house elf to  _ please  _ show them to their vault. 

“Y’think you got the speed from your dad?” Crowley muses, watching as Harry leans forward in their mine cart. The cool, damp air of the underground tunnels swells about them, whipping the dark black of Harry’s hair about, creating an unruly mess to rival what he’d already had. The red of Crowley’s hair is almost untouched -- pulled back and set into a messy bun -- but he keeps glancing at the angelic white of Aziraphale’s crown and smiling fondly. 

“He did do Quidditch,” Harry remarks, straining to shout against the billow of wind pressing against him. 

“He was just as daring as you, Harry,” Aziraphale reminds him fondly. Currently, the Angel looks, once again, as if he’d rather be on the  _ Bentley  _ than on his mine car. He leans against the back wall a little unsteadily, held forward by Crowley’s arm, nestled gently behind his back. They switch to crossed-arms once again when they step from the carriage, guiding each other as they make their way into Harry’s vault. “Lily never did Quidditch, but she was a… a  _ strong  _ woman.”

“Did she watch him? Do Quidditch, I mean.”

“Oh, always.” Aziraphale smiles. “I was never _there_ for any matches, I never was _quite_ that close to them, but when I visited them she always talked about it all like she’d memorized each match.”

Harry falls silent soon after, but his smile doesn’t leave. They gather the necessary money for his supplies, then leave, hair ending up practically  _ everywhere  _ in Harry’s face as they ascend back up to regular ground. The house elf -- apparently the Gringott’s house elves were  _ very  _ different from the normal sort -- dismissed himself with an air of disdain, sending them all back outside to meet again with Ron and Hermione and their respective families. Percy, the first to leave, seemed disgruntled to be anywhere near his family and starts to murmur about needing a new quill. Fred and George eyed Knockturn alley with fervor, making the excuse that they’d just found their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. 

"We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," Mrs. Weasley says, starting to walk off with Ginny. Arthur, on the other hand, stays rooted to the spot, speaking with Hermione’s parents attentively. "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!" She glares at the twin’s retreated forms.

Quickly, Crowley and Aziraphale realize that Harry and his friends are inclined to travel alone. With the satisfaction of knowing that the three will be completely safe where they are, they set off, drifting along the alley. No one seems to pay them much mind other than a few cursory glances as they gather what few supplies they still need. Not long before the time to meet the others slides into view, they come across a sub-alley; dark, grimey, in a way that was much more sinister than The Leaky Tavern’s moldy but cozy vibe. 

It's clear, from the moment that Crowley lays his eyes on it, he does  _ not  _ want to go inside.

_ “That’s  _ Knockturn alley?” the Demon hisses in interest, peering past the bricks and darting his tongue out to lick his lips. For all that Crowley enjoyed mischief and vulgarity, Knockturn alley looked far too similar to Hell. Aziraphale often found himself with a similar sentiment. Wide, open rooms with chilly white exteriors, and a lack of warmth found him in a bit of a panic. Put an earth-native Demon in a dirty, seedy underbelly of a place with no room to breathe, and you’d get much of the same effect.

“Erm. I suppose it is?” Aziraphale says in discomfort, looking about and pursing his lips. His hand on Crowley’s arm tightens, just a bit. “It’s rather… dirty, isn’t it?”

“Angel?” Crowley turns around, leaning in closer and re-securing his arm around Aziraphale’s as if to reassure him that he was  _ there.  _ He snorts, smiling, and pulling them away as the opening to the alley had never been there at all. “Don’t tell me you’re sssscared?”

The Angel in question glares, coasting along the street beside Crowley and pulling them nearer to Flourish and Blotts. “Oh- you Serpent, can you really judge me? It’s- It’s spooky!”

“Well, I’m a real-”

“A real spooky fan,  _ yes,  _ love, I know. I seem to recall us having this exact conversation in Tadfield!”

“Sod off,” Crowley says, without any real heat. Soon enough, he’s holding the door to the bookstore open, Aziraphale ducking in before him. There’s a very long line of people inside, and a hurried wizard near the front demanding that they  _ please  _ stop  _ pushing.  _ It takes a moment for the ruckus to be put to cause, but a large sign near the door finally reveals what’s convinced the mass of strangers to turn into a frenzy. 

**_GILDEROY LOCKHART_ **

_ will be signing copies of his autobiography _

**_MAGICAL ME_ **

_ today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M. _

“Uh- ngk-  _ tha’s  _ the git Molly was talking about, isn’t it?” Crowley points to the sign. “Lockhart, the one with the gnomes?”

Aziraphale glances over -- a bright blonde, sky blue-eyed figure winking at him -- then quickly grimaces and looks right back to the people before them, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. “I suppose it is,” he admits, distractedly peering around until his eyes catch on two black-haired figures and one red. “Oh- there they are.”

"Oh, there you are, good.” Mrs. Weasley’s breathless voice addressing Harry and his friends comes from around the crowd, as Aziraphale and Crowley tuck themselves into line next to her. She sounds as if she might well pass out, patting at her hair excitedly. "We'll be able to see him in a minute.”

Just then, Gilderoy Lockhart steps forth, sitting at a table covered in identical moving portraits of his dazzling smile. His real figure was currently wearing blue robes of a forget-me-not coloration, the exact same as his eyes, and a showy wizard’s hat placed against his head, crooked purposefully.

An irritable looking man comes streaking out from the crowd, holding a camera and stomping on people’s feet as he goes. “Move it,” he grumbles, shoving everyone this way and that. “This is for the Daily Profit!”

“Big deal,” Ron says, yanking his foot out of the way and rubbing it where the photographer had roughly smashed it. Gilderoy looks up -- glancing first at Ron, then at Crowley, who was standing a foot or two in front of Harry at the moment -- then away again, smiling brightly for the camera shoved in front of his face. The man goes on a long, arduous soliloquy, chanting his own praise and prancing about his booth like it’s a stage. By the time he’s done, the two preternatural entities in the room are already dreading their year of teaching with him, while most of the people in the room are screaming with joy. 

They’re about to leave, right as the crowd begins cheering again, Harry creeping backward and avoiding the narrowed gaze of the photographer when a new, pointed voice joins the din.

“Oh,  _ Potter?  _ Fancy seeing you somewhere as low as a bookshop like this?” Harry looks up, recognizing the all too familiar voice in an instant. Draco Malfoy, sneering from the staircase beside them, continues. “Famous Harry Potter, in Flourish and Blotts?”

“Leave him alone!” Ginny demands, shoving her books into her brand new cauldron and glaring up at the blonde above her. 

“Potter’s got a girlfriend!” Malfoy drawls, trailing off into light chuckles. Ginny stands her ground, scoffing with a bit of a flush to her cheeks. Ron and Hermione finally catch up to them, fighting against the crowd of people looking to have their books signed.

“Oh, it's you,” Ron says accusingly. “You surprised to see Harry here?”

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," Malfoy retorts smartly, "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."

Ron goes as scarlet as his hair and drops his own books into his cauldron, advancing forward. He looks as if he’d rather like to launch himself at the boy, until his gaze shoots up, Lucius Malfoy joining the fray, glaring down at them all with an air of haughty disdain. 

“Mr. Weasley,” he says coolly, looking behind, where the man has stridden up to stand behind his son, daughter, and their friends. “Well, well, well.”

“Lucius,” Arthur says, nodding back as politely as he can muster. That is to say, it looks as if his glare might’ve pierced a hole through the other man.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," Mr. Malfoy says. “All those raids... I hope they're paying you overtime?"

He reaches over his son -- Malfoy looking paler than usual, and still irritated -- and plucks a very old, very ratty version of A Beginner’s Guide To Transfiguration out of Ginny’s cauldron. “Obviously,” he begins languidly, “Not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Of course, right as Lucius opens his mouth to speak again-

-The book in his hands bursts into flames, setting his glove alight. He leaps back, yelping and dropping the thing on the ground. Right at the same time, Crowley and Aziraphale come striding up, the Angel uncharacteristically smug when faced with a book set on fire. 

“What in the  _ blazes?”  _ Shrieks Lucius, smacking his hand and the soot stains against his glove. He glances up, notices the expression of exact, murderous rage on Arthur Weasley’s face, and seems to think better of continuing. Instead, in an act of suspicious kindness, he plucks Ginny’s book of the ground -- now completely normal, everything left intact -- and slides it into her cauldron. Without another word -- and with a thousand new snarls -- he whips around, slamming into his son by accident and walking back outside.

\---

Through the last few days of summer vacation -- birthday parties with an excessive amount of fireworks, quidditch practice long into the summer evening, reading books by the light of a bonfire and soft, lovingly shared gazes -- it's hard to say if anyone really wanted the summer to end so quickly. It was clear that each person (minus only the two non-people, really) was excited for Hogwarts but sad to see the warmth of their summer go so quickly.

Crowley, who quickly decides that trying to shove both passenger and luggage inside of his poor Bentley is  _ absolutely  _ out of the question, requests that the two groups of families meet at the station. This quickly becomes a problem. As time drags on -- Fred forgets his fireworks, then Ginny forgets his diary -- Crowley finds himself drumming his fingers boredly on the wheel of his faithful car. He was always up for a bit of pointless mischief, but missing the train to Hogwarts was  _ not  _ on his bucket list. Aziraphale seemed similarly disgruntled. Harry, though annoyed, clearly knew that nothing too horrible was going to happen. The laughter he let out each time they were all forced to stop the Bentley was enough to lighten his Godparent’s moods tenfold.

Eventually -- at eleven, while Mr. Weasley goes dashing for trolley’s -- they rush into King’s Cross station. The natural hustle and bustle of the place is wild and fervent as ever, though lacking any wizards as late as their procession. It takes a moment of slapdash arrangement, but eventually, they’re all careening toward the platform and entering, one by one. 

Well.

They  _ were. _

With a crash and a slam, first Ron then Harry both go slamming into the barrier, carts crumpling, packages and suitcases scattering, Hedwig screaming in irritation and Scabbers squeaking in terror. Almost an instant later, Aziraphale and Crowley have rushed to their sides, wearing matching expressions of concern as they help the two to their feet.

“What in the blazes d’ you think you’re doing?” Shouts a guard from nearby, extracting even more attention from passersbyes.

Aziraphale glares at him wrathfully before anyone else can answer. “It was just an  _ accident,  _ sir!” He snaps back, annoyance at full force, and already scanning the four beings before him for injuries. The guard seems to take the hint -- aided by the removal of Crowley’s glasses -- and backs off, suddenly more interested in the train behind him than anyone else around. “Are you all alright?”

“I- I think,” Harry stammers, pushing his glasses back up his face, eyes wide. Ron nods with a similar sentiment, eyeing the barrier nervously. Crowley stands, assured that they’re both alright, and steps toward the bricked wall. When he tries to smack his hand through it, all he gets is a meaty  _ thwack  _ and a red palm, hissing all the while.

“ _ Oh for Heaven’s sake,  _ Crowley.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Do try not to punch any walls!”

Crowley, ignoring the good sense of his Angel, turns around and peers out of the station. “S’ closed,” he remarks bluntly, screwing his face up in confusion before turning back to them, grimacing. “Why’s it  _ closed?” _

“What- what if we can’t get to Hogwarts!” Ron asks, starting to panic. He looks a bit as if the discussion of “sullied blood” from Lucius has gotten to him, and Aziraphale is quick to send him a reassuring smile. Harry, thankfully, looks significantly less worried. There’s a hint of anxiety in his brow, but it’s quickly smoothed when Crowley shoots him a massive grin.

“Well,” starts the demon, spine rippling as he stands up straight, eyes widening underneath useless sunglasses. He presses his hands together and nods down at the group, appearing a bit taller than he should.

“I guess we’ll just have to  _ drive.” _

\---

No one -- not the Bentley, perhaps not even  _ Her --  _ understood how it was possible for Crowley to do what he did with the vehicle that day. Putting it into words would be futile.

(One can still try.)

(Imagine -- just for a moment, the whistle of a train. You are sitting in your bed, listening to the sounds of a far-off howl, machinery born. You lean against the window, sighing, skull pressed to the cool glass beside your bed, or your chair, or your floor. The whistle, though, does not fall apart like your sigh. It grows steadily louder, a shrill, piercing sound emanating from everywhere. It grows so loud -- in your bones, in your chest, in your lungs and filling every inch of your being, past skin and past reality. You try to scream with it, but the burden of the sound fills you and shouts for you, swelling inside you. You feel the room you sit in flood away from your senses, melting away like cheap plastic under a coal-powered flame. The scream continues to rise, pouring out of your body like blood and like soul. You are the scream. You are carried alongside the noise, rocketing into the ears of all that hunger and weep and  _ beg  _ for the barest of instances within the noise.)

(You  _ were  _ told it was futile.)

Still, they arrived safely -- albeit mildly traumatized -- to the gates of Hogwarts an  _ hour early.  _

“Everyone still attached to their heads?” Crowley asks, chuckling at the expressions of his passengers. After three side-to-side shakes of the head, he steps lithely from the car, helping Aziraphale beside him and pressing a brief kiss to the glaring Angel’s cheek. After letting the blush fade from his cheeks -- a result of Aziraphale pulling him into a much more on-the-lips kiss -- he marches over to Ron and Harry, tugging their doors open and letting the two stumble from within.

“What the hell was  _ that?”  _ Ron asks, breathlessly, clutching Scabber’s cage with shaking in his hands. Despite his slightly terrified expression, a childlike excitement sits in his eyes, not quelled by the idea of having to drag his luggage inside.

“Magic,” Harry replies, simply, following his Godparents into the castle, equally stunned. 

They carry onward into the sweeping halls of the castle, the swelling scents of the upcoming feast flooding their noses. Off-yellow lanterns and controlled flames spiral about the halls, keeping the castle lit in a soft, beautiful glow. Everything seems just as normal as ever -- as ever as Hogwarts could be  _ called  _ normal -- at first.

Then, Minerva comes dashing down the stairwell and it all starts to go a bit sideways at the edges.

“Bloody  _ hell,”  _ she utters, dressed in sweeping robes of black and red and wearing the same crooked glasses which had a shape that translated into her more feline form as well. She brings a hand to her mouth, as if to scold herself, then repeats it. “Bloody  _ hell!  _ Professors…”

“What is it Minerva, dear?” Aziraphale requests, gently nervous. He tents his fingers, pulling them together into a clasping grasp, looking up at the harried woman as she comes to a stop in front of them. She first eyes Crowley and Aziraphale -- blinking worriedly -- then Harry and Ron -- letting out a full-bodied flinch.

“They have kept off your track for a while now,” she says, composing herself. “Anthony, Zira, I’m afraid that they are  _ not  _ happy about the relocation of young Mr. Potter.”

The boy in question frowns, curling backward a little, with a worried glance up to his guardians. Ron shoots a look his way, moving a bit closer as if to protect him. The Angel and Demon just stare onward, prompting Minerva to continue.

“I’m afraid…” She takes a deep breath and continues. “I’m afraid I’ve been asked for you to… “return” Harry to Albus.”

A cold breeze flits through the empty hall. Crowley stiffens, a frozen mask of rage against his face. Aziraphale, matching the rage of his partner, widens his eyes and looks up, sudden, enraged, warrior-like. If anyone who had not known of his original purpose yet, then they would’ve known the moment they looked up to his expression.

“Well,” Crowley tests, pressing his long fingers to the small of Harry’s back, a steadying weight. “Take us to him, then.”

The air of the room grows even colder, fires dimming and Minerva’s eyes going steely. She nods -- trusting,  _ hoping  _ \-- leading the small group of assembled entities toward Albus’s office. The sounds of footsteps fill the halls, the freezing chill still remaining, offset by small bursts of heat each time Crowley passes a floating fire. Harry and Ron stay silent, the latter trying to silently communicate with the former, each step feeling more and more like a death sentence. Soon enough -- hot and cold running into a horrible crescendo, all mirth of Crowley’s driving forgotten -- Minerva is pulling them into a staircase, hands smoothed across the front of her robes, determined and quiet. 

(In many years, Crowley and Aziraphale had met quite a few strong women. Molly and Minerva, two enigmatic new figures that had somehow implanted into their lives -- brought a new definition to the word.)

“Albus,” Minerva says in lieu of a greeting, nodding at the man. Albus Dumbledore is sat at his desk, hands carefully polishing the spectacles of his glasses. The office itself is reminiscent of a much less cozy version of Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

“Thank you, Minerva,” he replies, nodding at her. “If you would be so kind as to escort young Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter from the room…?”

“No.”

Looking down, Albus’s twinkling gaze matches Harry’s, curiously. The boy still has his two hands clutching Hedwig’s cage, his glasses sliding down his nose, his dark skin slick with an anxious sheen of sweat. Still, with all of the determination of a Potter -- or that of a Demon and Angel -- he stands his ground and shakes his head.

“Very well.” Albus flits a hand through the air tiredly. “Just Mr. Weasley, then, please?”

“Wait-” Ron whips around. “What the hell- No! No, I’m not just-”

“It’s ok.” Harry silences him with a look -- eager, unafraid, enough to make his Godparent’s beam inwardly with pride -- and steps forward. “Ron, just go, I’ll be alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Harry, are you sure?”

“Sure as I am pf anything,” he reiterates, smiling. Finally, Ron nods, still a little uncertain as Minerva shoots the three still in the room a worried look and guides the last boy out.

Now, Albus fixes them all with a silvery, gentle look. Anyone else in this situation would’ve been relaxed, unworried, at this gaze. Anyone with enough foresight would recognize the sight of his face as a placating, useless gesture. Still, the group walks forward, sitting in the three chairs about the desk, Harry situated in the middle.

“I am sorry to have to interrupt you right before school begins,” Albus starts, pleasant enough, with his hands clasped and piercing eyes pointed through them, seemingly everywhere at once. “But, I do need to discuss the matter of Harry’s relocation.”

Taking the group's silence for an invitation, he continues.

“Mr. Potter, you were sent to your aunt Petunia’s home for a reason. When…” Albus sighs, taking a moment to consider his words and shifting in the frigid burn of the hot-cold dichotomy in the room. “When Lily Potter died, she made the ultimate sacrifice. To put it as plainly as I might, she gave you her love. When Voldemort attempted to kill you, Lily’s sacrifice kept you alive. It’s what left you with your scar,” he says, pointing a boney finger to the realistic shape of lightning curling lightly across Harry’s forehead, a bright contrast across his dark skin and hair. “As long as you remain with your blood -- Lily’s blood, to be precise -- then you cannot be harmed by forces such as Voldemort or those that seek to aid him.”

He nods to himself, quiet for a small moment. “Sending you to your aunt’s home was… a difficult decision. I have no doubt that she, along with her family, was not kind to you, Harry. But.” A quiet pause before he continues, the ticking of some far off machinery the only sound left beside the quiet of two figures breathing.  _ “But.  _ I cannot stress enough the importance of your safety. Both to wizarding kind, and to everyone who cares for you.”

“I cannot allow for you to stay in a compromised position. Your aunt’s home is, unfortunately, the safest place for you to be.”

Through the conversation, Crowley and Aziraphale and Harry have all kept the dignity and self-control to remain silent. It’s a hard thing to do.  _ Especially  _ hard when a child that you are fiercely protective of, is crying silent tears between you. Especially, when you are a twelve-year-old boy sitting with your godparents, crying, confronted with the death of your mother once again. Confronted with the death of  _ everyone  _ you had ever had, before Crowley and Aziraphale. Now that Albus has taken a pause, the two elder-bodies in the room see it fit to break the quiet.

“His blood, hm?” Crowley seems to toss this idea around in his mind, for a moment.

“Oh, that does sound interesting,” Aziraphale confesses, his hand carefully looped around Harry’s. “But- a bit arbitrary within the right criteria, correct?”

Crowley -- sunglasses off, settled instead against the desk, yellow-slit snake eyes staring right into Albus -- nods in agreement. “Lily Potter’s sacrifice will always be with Harry, but her help and love are joined with other protectionssss as well.”

“That they are.” Aziraphale nods -- eyes, too many of them yet not enough, freckling him but also nowhere to be seen -- and continues. “I do believe that any normal human might have trouble with protecting someone as loved as Harry, would they not?”

“Naturally,” Crowley says, nodding appreciatively. “It isss quite convenient that we aren’t human at all,  _ isn’t it?” _

“Oh, I do believe it is,” Aziraphale says, warm voice contrasting the frigid cold seeping from every inch of his corporation, and past it as well. Nothing in how he speaks, holds himself, breaths and does-not-breathe, suggests anger. More importantly, everything else about him  _ does. _

“I do think that Harry’s probably quite a bit safer with people who don’t want to  _ hurt him,  _ hm?”

( _ Fangs, sickening yellow eyes, too many pupils in too little space, the scent of brimstone and flame, the heady sensation of a limb being frozen from its body, bitten and broken and painful.) _

“I am-”

Albus cuts himself off, realizing that his office is empty once again. 

  
  
  



	3. Mudbloods and Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be riddled with mistakes, I've got no idea. I have decided I Simply Do Not Care.
> 
> But....., We Introduce The Snake Here So WAHOO?
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry wakes up in the morning with a splitting headache. 

The night before, with Dumbledore’s unfortunate intervention, had not been pleasant. He’d been more than embarrassed to find himself unable to stop crying, as silent as it was. He didn’t _cry._ Something wound up and taut tight in his chest had barred tears from falling, years ago. Even as a baby, he hadn’t cried much. The Dursley’s enjoyed reminding him of this at every chance they got, whenever he got a bit too loud for their tastes. 

Still, as Crowley and Aziraphale had silently walked right up to Hogsmead and their shared apartment, Harry couldn’t stop himself from shrugging closer between them.

It wasn’t _fair._

Somewhere through the night -- he’d fallen asleep in an armchair, he remembered that, with a snake wound about his shoulders and an Angel’s hand carding through his hair -- they must’ve brought him back into Hogwarts. 

In the morning, Ron races over to him in the common area, half-dressed and demanding an explanation, only cutting himself off when Hermione notices Harry’s bedraggled state and glares at the redhead. He’d missed the feast from the night before, and though Aziraphale and Crowley had given him dinner, he was absolutely starving and grateful to ignore the conversation before it began.

As Hermione raved about her summer, and Ron pretended not to be very excited about listening, Harry shoveled as much food and drink into his mouth as he could.

Neville, a bit oblivious to the tension in the group, settles next to them all, Dean and Seamus following quickly behind. Ginny seems to be eyeing their group from nearby, but Harry is happy to see that she’s found a small group of people to sit with herself. 

Up at the head table, Crowley is nowhere to be seen -- “Probably off shouting at some poor student,” Ron muses -- and Aziraphale seems happy enough to glance warily into Dumbledore through the entire meal. The headmaster eyes him with a mixture of carefully concealed nervousness, and a quiet curiosity, eyes flashing with a need to know more. Whispers are quick to flood the hall and the rumor mill within it. Students, ghosts, and staff alike all wonder after Professors Fell and Crowley, asking all sorts of questions about their absence the night before, and Professor Crowley’s disappearance again this morning. Even more students wonder why Professor Fell seemed so particularly irate.

(Many of them speculated the two don’t get along very well. Others suspected that Profesor Crowley was actually Professor Fell’s mortal enemy. A smaller selection of peers had added to the betting pool, that the two could’ve been in love. That portion of very observant fellows was quickly denied any more gossiping rights.)

(Minerva, who knew the two outside of Hogwarts, had placed twenty galleons saying they were married. Severus had bet four on them being enemies. Albus had declined to try, but had eyed the “married” pile meaningfully. Rubeus, as the man they visited the most often, was just trying his best not to reveal the truth.)

“Mail’s due any minute,” Neville says cheerfully, a hand covering his mouth full of food. “I think Grans sending a few things I forgot.”

Harry had only just finished stirring his second bowl of porridge when a heavy stream of tawny wings and hooting beaks joins the fray of students. A large package is dropped rather unceremoniously into Neville’s plate -- narrowly missing his head -- and he gasps. 

Hedwig circles over Aziraphale’s head for a moment, before she lands on his shoulder and drops a letter into his lap. He takes it, thanking her with a nod and sending her back down to her owner. Harry accepts her gratefully, letting her perch on his shoulder and feeding her bits of salmon as she hoots happily. Her final piece of salmon, though, goes flying, where another bedraggled bundle of feather goes rocketing past.

“Errol!” Ron exclaims, pulling the owl out of Hermione’s cup by its feet -- gently, as Harry had explained that the owl was old and deserved some sort of respect, and Aziraphale had been eyeing him warily for days by then -- and extracting a softly yellowed letter from under his wing. The bird slumps, unconscious, onto the table. 

“It’s not dead,” Hermione says stubbornly, prodding it with her fork. 

“He’s fine,” Ron responds dismissively, before groaning quite loudly. “I’m more worried about the _letter.”_

“Who’s it from?” Neville leans over and glances at the words curiously, nearly knocking his drink over. 

“My _mum.”_ Ron grips the parchment as if it’s about to be set on fire, and steels himself to his task. Ripping paper from wax, he winces, pulling a separate piece from within.

For a few moments, there’s silence -- as much silence as the hall can gather, without five extra voices adding to it -- as the letter sits. Ron scans the letter, eyes frantically whipping across the page, hands shuffling to pull the paper upward and show him more. Then, sudden and quick, he leans back and shouts to his sister: “Mum says welcome to Gryffindor!”

A few snickers and Ginny’s scarlet face later, and Ron curls forward again. “It was about us, Harry!” He grins, jamming his letter back into its envelope. “She was saying how happy she was we got back.”

“Oh!” Harry brightens -- one of his Godparents must’ve been able to tell her what had happened -- and leans forward, snagging the last piece of toast on the plate across from him. He’s about to ask more about the letter when McGonagall comes striding up, carrying a wealth of papers and passing them out to each student. Course schedules. Harry brightens further. The second-year Gryfindoors had double Herbology with the Slytherins. Even if he might’ve once been rather mediocre in the subject, being so close with Crowley had given him a certain affinity for it. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all leave the castle together, setting out toward the rows of greenhouses downwind of the castle. Rolling mist drifts past them, a familiar friend as their shoes quickly become soaked in dew. Most of the class turns to them as they come striding up, only a few final stragglers still remaining behind, each of them waiting for their professor to come forward and teach them. 

He comes in the form of a wrathful, slouching mass, hands shoved deep into heavy-duty gloves, spraying flesh-eating slug repellent across a patch of plants he preferred to keep outside. He bites his lip in concentration, glaring at every plant that crosses his path. 

Suddenly, he throws the can -- now empty -- against the ground, growling in irritation. “Damn slugs,” he remarks snidely, swaggering up to their group and patting the dirt from his gloves off against each other. He scans their group, glasses on -- though Harry can see the curl of an irritated frown on his lips -- and beckons for them to follow. “Well, greenhouse three, then.”

The group of students amassed there quickly becomes a flurry of gossip. None of them had ever been allowed within greenhouse three. Whether herbology was a popular subject or not — and with Professor Crowley’s teaching, it had started to be — they were each individually curious of what would be found in the third glass figure in the rows before them. It held far more dangerous plants than devils snare or otherwise, and it was just the sort of place a gaggle of twelve year old students were fascinated with. 

Crowley, on principle, was modern. He enjoyed the thrills of each passing era — give or take a few, less pleasant examples — and kept few keepsakes from each. A painting, a statue, a throne, a car. An Angel, perhaps, could be seen as a keepsake, if an Angel could be owned. Crowley did not _own_ his Angel, but he did love him quite a bit.

So, for anyone who knew the two, the crooked relic of years passed that Crowley pulls from his pocket might’ve been a bit strange. He takes the key in his hand, slipping it into the lock of the door before him and clicking it to the side. Humid, warm air siphoned outward, warming the morning sky as he ushers each student into the greenhouse. 

The great, sweeping glass room is already familiar for Harry. He’d been in the greenhouse once before -- Crowley needed to collect some things before they left together in the passing year, and he’d enlisted Harry’s hands for some of the less-threatening and more-secret plants in the greenhouse. All across the room -- hanging from the ceiling, draped across tables, growing up from and into the ground -- are dizzying shades of greens, purples, reds, and any color that happens to slither its way between the cacophony. It's a far cry from the neatness Harry’s more devilish godparent typically sustains. The professor in question sweeps past them all, dressed in a simple black button-down and deep, purplish robes that hang from his shoulders like a flagrant cape instead of an official uniform. He shrugs the thing off onto his personal desk, bristling, and beckons for them to follow.

Before their group, sits a table. A rather unassuming one, perhaps, absent of any fanged roofs or screaming leaves, covered with all manners of pots, gloves, and earmuffs. The students assemble about it dutifully, glancing warily at the tall, tawny green stock of the plants before them. Appearances, as was customary at Hogwarts, were _always_ deceiving. 

“Mandrakes,” Crowley begins, simple and precise. _“Mandrakes._ Bloody _loud_ little assholes. Oh- I’m not supposed to curse in front of you, am I?”

He looks about the room expectantly, grinning. No one answers. A foul-mouthed teacher was a fun one.

“We’ll be repotting them today. I don’t suppose any of you lot know the properties of a mandrake?”

To no one’s surprise, Harry, Hermione, and Neville are the first to throw their hands into the lot. When Crowley calls Neville’s name, the boy blushes scarlet, as if he hadn’t even noticed he’d volunteered himself up to answer.

“M- Mandrake,” he stutters to begin, staring at the floor, “ Or- or Mandroga, is what we call a- a restorative?” Neville, it seems, feeds off of validation, and looks at Crowley for it. The Demon nods, and so the boy continues, almost with more confidence. “It returns people who have been cursed, or hexed, or- or just messed up a bit back to their original states. It doesn’t work on… erm. More potent curses. Though.”

By the end of the sentence, he looks as if he doesn’t want to be speaking at all anymore. Crowley frowns -- potent curses? Maybe he’d have to ask someone about Longbottom -- but just claps his hands together and grins.

 _“Greattttt._ That’s exactly how it works. Got me outta a blight of- er- a blight of _trouble_ a few cent- a few years back. Got cursed by someone who decidedly _not_ anything remotely human. Made me speak in snaketongue for a few days.”

The full story -- something about an angry demon he’d just rescued from a summoning by request of down below -- stays silent. The whole class was rightly aware of Crowley’s affinity for bizarre stories, but it seemed that Crowley wouldn’t be giving them any time to stall in class.

“Anyways, ten points to Gryffindor an’all that. _However,_ it’s also just as dangerous as it is irritating. Does anyone know why?”

This time, watching as Malfoy sniggers at someone, Crowley turns to point at someone who _hadn’t_ raised their hand.

“Malfoy! Thanks for answering.”

“I-” The boy flushes -- as much as a horribly anemic looking child could flush -- and glares in the direction first of Harry and his friends, then to Crowley, who glares back. “Their scream can kill you,” he responds, practiced and bored. 

Despite the boy’s propensity for miseducation and bigotry, Crowley is happy to know that he at least knows something about plants. 

“Right. Ten points to Slytherin.” 

Now, he pushes his own tray of purple-green leaves forward, nudging at the budding plant. “The Mandrakes we’ve got here are quite young, but that doesn’t mean they won’t obliterate you. So, grab some earmuffs.”

Everyone starts to scrabble for a pair that isn’t bright pink or horribly fluffy. It lands Harry with a nice, forest green pair— Slytherin colors, which he didn’t actually _hate—_ and he leans over the plants with interest as soon as he’s selected his.

“When I tell you to put them on, put them _all_ the way on,” Crowley tells them, with a severe expression easily seen below his glasses. Then, he picks up a pair of soft yellow earmuffs -- looking more like they’d belong to Aziraphale than anyone -- and snaps them over his ears, barely avoiding knocking his sunglasses off. “When it’s safe to remove them, I’ll….” He waves a hand and shrugs. “Put my thumb up or something. Right. Earmuffs on.”

Harry put his own on. They block out every sound completely, and fit completely snug to his head. Hermione and Ron both pull their own pairs of bright orange pairs on, almost blending in with Ron’s first hair. Once everyone else has copied their professor, the Demon firmly grasps the tufts of leaves below him and _tugs._

Out from beneath comes an ugly, mottled, baby’s head. It’s covered in dirt, red and brown with seeds and roots dangling from its wrinkled and warped bottom. And, quite clearly, it is bawling so loudly that the faintest of shrill, screaming tones could be heard from out of its mouth, even with the earmuffs. 

Crowley dips a hand under the table and grabs a pot, hauling the large, orange-ish material up to the table. Then, he slams the mandrake into it’s terra-cotta depths, suffocating its awful noise with mulch and soil. He dusts his hands off, giving them a sharply triumphant grin and shooting them all a thumbs up. 

“Since they’re not fatal, there’s something to look forward to.” Crowley had heard the noise in full force before. It hadn’t discorporated _him,_ but his ears hadn’t stopped bleeding for a full six months. “But -- they’ll still knock you out for a few hours. Keep the earmuffs on, or you’ll be missing your first day back and I will be deducting points for blatant stupidity if you try to do anything to impress each other.”

“Now, four to a pot. Gather up.” He claps his hands. Then, he cuts himself off, cursing a little too loudly for it to be under his breath. “Eh- and mind the venomous tentacula, it’s teething and I can say from experience - it _will_ eat fingers, no matter how boney.”

\---

Transfiguration was hardly _boring._ Harry knew he had a natural well of magic that was a bit unnecessary given his age, but that didn’t mean he was intelligent or spell-smart as Hermione. So, even if transfiguration wasn’t _boring,_ it was _hard._

It did feel nice, though, to know that Harry wasn’t the only one troubled by the subject. Apparently, Crowley and Aziraphale had both decided it was high time that they learned some spellwork. Aziraphale knew some -- from book, not expertise or practice, as did Crowley but he was much less competent -- but that didn’t mean he knew how to _use_ it. Ron, too, seems plenty irritated with his own subpar progress, and even more irritated by Hermione’s as-always perfect execution. 

By the time that they arrive at lunch, things seem normal once again. Ron is raving his frustrations at his own incompetency. Hermione is fiddling with a spellbook, flipping between pages. Harry is watching them both, grinning at their familiar antics. It’s a nice change of pace after the troubles of the night before.

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” Harry asks, leaning over the table to grab Hermione’s book and set it upside down in her hands. She glares at him for his impudence, shaking her head and righting the papers.

“Defense against the dark arts,” she answers promptly, before dipping her head back down to the page she’d been on.

“Why?” Ron demands, snatching her schedule from her other hand. _This_ gets her attention _again,_ and she finally shoves her book back down. “Have you got all his lessons outlined already?”

Hermione yanks it right back, dark skin turning even darker with flushed embarrassment.

Promptly, they finish lunch, stepping out together and pretending to not remember the rest of their conversation. It’s overcast, dark, and moody, all summer warmth seeping quickly from the air. Hermione sits on a step right outside the circle of Hogwarts halls, burying her head back into her book and half-listening as Ron and Harry start discussing quidditch scores from the last Chudley Cannons game. 

Suddenly — halfway through a rather heated argument — Harry gets the keenest feeling of being _watched._ He looks up to catch the eyes of a mousy, brown-haired boy, fingers clutching an expensive looking muggle camera as if it’s keeping his tethered. The moment he sees that Harry has looked up to him, he walks over. 

"All right, Harry? I'm - I'm Colin Creevey," he says, breathless, taking a nervous step forward and smiling exuberantly, mouth a very thin line. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think - would it be all right if - can I have a picture?" He raises the camera hopefully, miming taking a photo.

“A picture?” Harry repeats blankly, blinking.

"So I can prove I've met you, " He says, creeping steadily forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead, and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move ." Then, segueing, Colin gasps. "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you? Maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

“Signed photos? You’re handing out signed photos, Potter?” Draco’s voice comes rising over the din of the outdoors, nasally and pitching wildly. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle snicker. “Everyone line up! _Harry Potters_ handing out signed photos!”

“No I’m _not,”_ Harry hisses angrily. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re just _jealous,”_ Colin says defensively. Crabbe eyes him, fists wider than Colin’s neck and looking as if they’d like to familiarize themselves with the spot. 

"Jealous?" Malfoy says, sneering. His hair glints in the light, eerily shiny. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."

(Malfoy, though he would never say it himself, thought the scar looked rather fantastic. It wasn’t because he was secretly quite interested in Harry. Or jealous of his friends. Not at all, and anyone who asked would likely have both their parents fired from their jobs if Malfoy saw fit to ask.)

Right as Ron looks like he might start hexing the boy, a new voice joins the conversation.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale, dressed in the same shades of tan and light blue as always, comes stepping up, smiling at them despite the confusion in his voice. “Mr. Malfoy, is there something that you need from Mr. Potter?”

“Wh-” Malfoy whips around, glaring harshly. “What are _you_ doing here?”

If Harry had been irritated earlier, he’s furious now. He _knows_ that his godparents have no need for his protection. At the same time, he knows that he _wants_ to protect them. Especially from people like Malfoy.

“I am quite aware that you like to think that your father owns this school,” Aziraphale begins, pleasant to a T. “But he, in all honesty, does not. Now, unless you would like to have a week’s worth of detention, I suggest that you _leave.”_

Malfoy, successfully rebuffed, flits away gracefully, sneering all the way and sweeping trails in the grass with his cloak. He looks a bit like Crowley, if Crowley had decided to adopt Aziraphale’s hair color and a more demonic demon’s mannerisms. 

“Professor Fell!” Colin gasps the moment Malfoy disappears, grinning in admiration as if his entire face might burst. “I- oh- thank you!”

“Of course!” Aziraphale smiles again, all coldness gone as the Angel speaks. He looks across Harry and his friends, and his smile widens. “Hello you three! How are you?”

“Great _now,”_ Harry grumbles. Even Hermione has shoved her book away, greeting the professor with a smile “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Of course, Harry.” He unclasps his hands, pointing at Hermione’s book with discomfort. “Do you… enjoy, Gilderoy’s texts?”

She blushes -- half in irritation at the dig to her reading preferences, half at the attention -- and nods. “Yes, I _do.”_

“Oh-”

Just then, the bell for class rings and Aziraphale nods at them all apologetically. “You have him now, don’t you?”

“Yup.” Ron groans. “Bloody oaf. He dresses like a Christmas tree.”

\---

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” Ron says, settling into his seat. Hermione, still entrenched in the folds of her papers, sits next to him, glancing once at Harry then away.

Before Harry can tell his friend to shut up, Lockhart reveals himself. He’s wearing a gaudy symbol of wealth in the form of bright golden robes and a brilliant, flashing smile. He clears his throat, leading to a sudden silence from the class as he plucks Neville’s book off his table, making the boy flinch backward rather hard. 

“Me.” He winks at them all, mimicking his portrait’s exuberant expression. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. _But._ I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

He pauses for laughter, failing when the class only just manages to smile weakly at him. 

It does not deter him in the slightest. 

“Now- I guess it’s down to business, isn’t it?” He reaches under his desk, lifting a large, black, curtain topped cage. It rattles and shakes when he drops it down, strange hissing noises emanating from within and a rather noisy hooting buzzing out every few seconds. 

"Now - be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind!” Lockhart’s noir suddenly turns, warping into something like a… sparkling grimace. With glitter. “You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you _remain calm."_

Despite his irritation with the man, Harry finds himself leaning forward, trying to peak within the cage. Lockhart yanks the curtain farther down and gestures to it with a flourish.

"I must ask you not to scream," he says, presenting the cage with a low voice. "It might provoke them!”

He whips off the cover.

" _Yes_ ," he says, in a scandalized voice. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

The pixies are bright, neon blue, each with warped and wrinkled faces that shriek at the inhabitants of the room, waiting for their release. The moment the fabric is ripped from the cage, they begin to babble in irritation.

Seamus seems completely unable to handle himself. He barks out a laugh, banging a fist on his desk and grinning heavily even when he stops giggling. 

"Yes?" Lockhart smiles.

"Well, they're not - they're not very - _dangerous_ , are they?" Seamus chokes on a snort, apparently still not finished laughing. 

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyedly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!" Then, he pauses for very obvious effect. The effect is absolutely nothing. "Right, then," he continues loudly, calling the attention of the room. "Let's see what you make of them!" 

Then, he opens the cage.

It quickly becomes pandemonium. The pixies shoot from their cage like bombs, throwing themselves across the rooms in bright blue streaks. Desks go upended, chairs go flying, and people scream shrill screams of terror as the pixies begin to rip into their clothes and supplies. The room dissolves into a writhing mass of blue-black and beady eyes. Neville is lifted high into the air, thrown onto the chandelier by his robes.

"Come on now - round them up, round them up, for god’s sake, they’re only _pixies!”_

Lockhart rolls up his sleeves, brandishing his wand like a nightstick and shouting wildly. "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

It does absolutely nothing. In fact, one of the pixies takes his wand and tosses it right out of the window, giggling as he dashes off and into his office once again. 

“I’ll trust you three to just gather them all up again!” He shouts, before disappearing completely, leaving them alone in the chaos.

“What do we _do?”_ Harry shouts, glancing up to Neville, then to a bundle of pixies just beyond his reach, then back to Ron and Hermione. 

“Can’t you-”

Ron is very suddenly cut off by a streak of red hair and tight, fancy black clothes. 

Anthony J. Crowley, running into the room, draws his wand, shouts the charm of “immobulus!” then frowns when only five pixies go frozen. Giving up, he snaps his fingers, and the rest very suddenly find themselves inside their cage.

“Oh- professor!” Hermione, frazzled and nervous, grabs her books and tries to salvage some of their more ripped up pages. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron says breathlessly. “Thanks?”

From above, Neville swings. Crowley looks up -- curses enough to make a blasphemer cry -- and silently casts wingardium leviosa, bringing him back down and giving him a gentle once-over, checking for injuries. When each student has confirmed that they’re alright, he nods and steps back. 

“Now,” the Demon begins, planting his hands firmly to his hips and cocking his head to the side, worrying his lip with preternaturally sharp teeth. “Does anyone want to tell me just what happened here?”

Their look to Lockhart’s office is answer enough.

—-

Over the next few weeks, Harry tries his hardest to avoid anyone like Malfoy, Colin, or Lockhart. He dodges into offices. He tucks himself into tiny cracks in the wall. He stays stuck _firmly_ in his common room or somewhere hidden with his friends and his Godparents.

So, when Oliver Wood yanks him out of bed at ass-o-clock in the non-daylit morning, he’s sufficiently confused by the disruption to his carefully-built schedule.

“Whassamatter?” He asks, groggily, and still without his glasses. The mess that is Oliver Wood’s face blinks. 

“Quidditch practice!” The coach says, much too enthusiastic for Harry’s taste and looking like a large, inhuman blob. He pulls his glasses on, and Oliver is given form. He’s fully dressed already. “Come on!”

The sky, when Harry looks out the window, is only barely slit with the golden pink of early morning, dewy mist crawling up and forth from the hills below them. The clouds pass by in quiet contemplation, watching the forest and the castle below them. 

“Oliver,” he croaks, looking back at the quidditch coach’s frantic face. “It’s the crack of dawn.”

“Exactly.” Oliver shrugs, but his eyes tell more a story of excitement and desperation than nonchalance. "It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let's _go_. None of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year-”

Harry silences him by standing, yawning and blearily looking for his quidditch robes, eyes covered in sleep. 

Five minutes of ineffective digging about later, he finds himself staggering down the stairs behind Wood, wearing a mix of his quidditch robes and a cloak for warmth, his broomstick on his shoulder. He climbs through the portrait hole and away, listening to the silence of the sprawling castle’s groans in the early morning. By the time he enters the changing room, it's clear that everyone else is just as exhausted as he. Oliver is the only one truly awake -- Fred and George have dark bags under their eyes, Angelina keeps running into walls -- and he marches around, giving orders and grinning whenever he gets the chance.

Pretty soon, he’s unrolling several new boards of quidditch tactics. Five minutes in, Fred is snoring on Alicia’s shoulder. George falls over and starts sleeping on the ground. Angelina shoves herself half into a locker and stays there. Harry sinks into a boredom-filled stupor, matched by each other unwilling participant of the lecture, barely even half-listening to Oliver go on about bright red lines and squiggly images on posters. 

“So.” Oliver abruptly breaks through their hazy exhaustion, making Angelina fall over and smack a dent into the material of her locker. “Is that clear? Any questions?”

“I’ve got a _question,”_ George yawns, suddenly awake and very annoyed at it. “Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?”

Oliver drops his hopeful look, deciding instead to glare at them hotly. “Now listen here you lot. We should have won the Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control—“

Harry had been out of it in the hospital for the last game of the year. Logically, he knew it wasn’t _his_ fault, but he couldn’t help but be guilty that he’d soiled it all for the team regardless. Still, Oliver tries his best to compose himself and Harry could have thanked him for it.

“So this year, we train harder than ever!” Oliver, a bit over enthusiastic, pumps his fist in the air and grins high spiritedly. Quick as a flash, he’s grabbing his broom, tugging the lot of them out of the changing rooms as they try to conceal their groans of fatigue.

By the time they enter the pitch, the red and blue of sunrise have shifted into a grey cloudy overcast. Ron and Hermione sit perched in the stands, eating enough to make Harry’s stomach excessively jealous. Sitting near them are Crowley and Aziraphale, the former looking rather put out with the cold and the latter smiling at him fondly for it. 

“You aren’t done yet?” Ron shouts down, nudging Hermione out of her half-asleep stupor. 

“Haven’t even started,” Harry shouts back, before he lets out a heavy sigh that sounds a bit more like a groan. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.”

Finally, Harry mounts his broom, kicking off into the exhilarating wind for the first time in the morning. He flies past his friends and guardians, greeting them with a well placed whoop and a wave, before he rejoins the quidditch team in the middle of the pitch. They’re about to start real practice for the first time since the many hours they’d started to assemble, when, when out of nowhere, flashes of light green robes, snake iconography, and angrily masked onlookers come forward.

“Flint!” Oliver dives to the ground, landing on the turf with a going to his eyes that borders on murderous. “This is our practice time! We got the course to ourselves today!”

Marcus Flint -- with huge, unkempt teeth, and broad shoulders than span a mile -- grins boyishly. “There’s enough room for the both of us here, Wood.”

“But- but we booked the _field!”_ Oliver splutters, turning more red by the minute. He readjusts his broom, almost brandishing it.

"Ah," Flint exhales, flipping a note over in his fingers to gesture at the rest of the Gryffindors. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.”

Momentarily distracted from his plight, Oliver cocks his head and asks: “Who? New seeker?”

Then, the rest of the group parts.

It’s dramatic, gaudy, and a brilliant reveal all at once. Out steps Draco Malfoy, no longer guarded by his peers, holding the jet black handle of his broom and grinning smugly.

“Aren’t you Lucius’s son?” Fred asks, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s funny you should ask,” another player answers, grinning boldly and taking her chance and sweeping her broom forward, wood glinting in the early morning light. “Look at the gifts he so generously donated to us.”

All seven of the players have identical nimbus two thousand and ones, wood bristling with power and golden lettering marking its name on its neck.

“The latest model,” Flint says restlessly, rubbing the broom handle and cleaning what has apparently become a massive spot of dust upon it. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps…” He grins rather nastily at Fred and George, with their Cleansweep fives. “It sweeps the board with them." Then, he looks past their group, faux-grimacing at whatever he sees. “Oh, look. It’s a field invasion.”

Ron and Hermione begin to cross the field, frowning confusedly at the random figures in the field. Naturally, this leads to much more glaring and huffing from the Slytherins, who hated interruptions almost as much as they hated Gryffindors. 

“What’s happening?” Ron asks, glancing at Harry. “Why aren’t you all playing?” Then, directed accusingly toward Malfoy: What’s he doing here?”

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley.” Malfoy brings his broom out and puts it in front of him, lounging backward as if his wealth speaks for itself. “Everyone’s just admiring the brooms my father got the team. Good, aren’t they?”

Noticing Ron’s open-mouthed expression, Hermione nudges in, interrupting the conversation coldly. “At least no one on the Griffindor team had to _buy_ their way in. They got in on pure talent.”

Malfoy, with all of his smug, cool indifference, falters. His expression of amusement quickly warps to irritation -- then to hot, molten rage -- and he glares. 

“No one asked for your opinion, _mudblood.”_

A blade of grass could drop. The silence about them wouldn’t care.

Then:

_“One HUNDRED points from Slytherin!”_

Somehow -- out of nowhere, out of everything, out of dirt and out of nothing at once -- Crowley and Aziraphale appear, walking up with expressions that could boil through the land about them and could tunnel through a pound of flesh. Crowley, who had been the one to issue the punishment, whips his glasses from his face, gesturing at the team before him with the darkened glass. The orange set int his corporation becomes very apparent. 

Malfoy goes very white.

“Wh- But- My father-”

“Twenty more,” Aziraphale says sweetly, holding a finger up. “No need for argument, Mr. Malfoy.”

The rest of the group takes a step back from their carefully guarded seeker, sensing a storm on the horizon.

“Two weeks of detention,” Crowley says, smiling wickedly. “For being a sniveling little-”

Aziraphale puts a hand on his arm -- no need to get himself fired -- but his expression doesn’t change. 

“Oh- and If Professor Snape would like to come and discuss why your new Seeker is missing practice? Well, of course, he may,” he says, addressing Flint while the bulky teenager swells in the face and glares, full of rage. “But fascist ideals and discrimination shall _not_ be tolerated, no matter how _muggle_ you might find them.”

“Practice is canceled,” Crowley says harshly. “For all of today. All of you, go back inside. Tomorrow, Gryfindoor will practice and there will not be a _ssssingle complaint,_ alright?”

The Slytherin team -- no longer finding themself in own their own joke, no longer laughing or joking -- quickly vacated the field, Malfoy ranting the moment that he thinks he’s out of earshot.

“Why- why us too, professors?” Asks Oliver, the only person on the team brave enough to confront the scariest professors in Hogwarts, if it meant they’d gotten between him and quidditch.

“Severus’ll jussst come right out and start harassing everyone if you stay,” Crowley says flippantly. 

“He’ll probably be coming round later, as well,” Aziraphale adds. “That was quite a few points you took. Not that it wasn’t justified, of course, dear,” he explains, hastily. Now, he looks at Hermione, who looks rather miserable. “Are you ok, Mrs. Granger?”

“Oh-” she looks up, trying to smile and half failing. “Malfoy’s just- just a- a right _git,”_ she finishes firmly, looking away.

“Five points to Gryffindor. For the insult.”

She looks up to Crowley, confused at her language going rewarded. He just shrugs. 

“Good for sssomeone to say the truth, once in a _while.”_

“Well-” Hermione lets out a short sigh, composes herself, then smiles. “Thank you, professors.”

“Bah. S’ what we do.” Crowley winks at Harry. “Spread mischief and misery.” He throws a casual thumb in Aziraphale’s direction. “It’s his lot that does the nice stuff.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale coughs, looking rather put out. _“Our_ lot. We don’t… We don’t have lots. Anymore. And you’re plenty nice, no matter how many letters that word has got.”

Before the Demon can begin to argue about four-letter words, Aziraphale turns back to the silent-stunned Gryffindor quidditch team assembled about them, looking at their professors reverently, Oliver looking as if he had just found a new good.

“So. Who wants tea?”

\---

Tea turns into chatting amicably. Chatting turns into a promise of more tea sometime else. Promises turned into the hour turning and classes starting up once again. Crowley and Aziraphale have their own duties, as do the students have their own classes to attend. The day progresses as normal, save for one very _heated_ intrusion from Snape, where he threatens to take the issue of the day to Albus. Crowley tells him, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off. Aziraphale punctuates with a more than typical glare. 

So, Malfoy would be shining trophies with Argus every Saturday and Sunday night for two weeks, and as much vindictive justice was allowed was given.

Finally the next day. The night turns with nary a whimper, pressing on to Saturday without protest. The afternoon drags its heels against the ground and goes kicking and screaming. With very little to do, Crowley and Aziraphale spend a wealth of the day in Hogsmeade, accompanying a group of sixth years who had needed to pick up some extra parchment. The rest of the day is spent outdoors, pleasantly wandering the grounds and greeting the few students that felt inclined to drift as well.

Right after dinner, the two invite Harry, Hermione, and Ron to join them for tea once again. The three arrive a quarter to eight, carrying a plate of teacakes fresh from the banquet and enough energy between the three of them to knock out a small horse.

“I know that _Ron_ likes cocoa, Hermione, but what do you favor?” Aziraphale takes the plate of teacakes she’d offered him, setting him on his office desk. They weren’t eating anywhere near the library -- it was clear that even friends and family weren’t meant to eat anywhere near a Principalities books -- and had instead taken up residence in Aziraphale’s humble, but comfortable office space. “I have almost anything, dear.”

“Oh- I do like chamomile,” she says, perking up. The events of the other day still seem to be weighing on her, and the rest of them were glad to provide some sort of distraction.

“Of course.” The Angel quickly busies himself with making tea, Crowley starting on the cacoa for him and Ron. While the Demon found no real pleasure in eating, he’d always loved a good bit of chocolate.

They finish quickly, sitting back down and making light discussion.

“Why- why doesn’t Hogwarts have some sort of…” Aziraphale holds a palm to his mouth and hiccups, lightly. “Class, to teach people about blending in with muggles? It seems as if it's _necessary.”_

“I don’t think its that important,” Ron grumbles back petulantly. “We aren’t _actually_ muggles-”

“But you _live_ around them,” Hermione argues. She takes another teacake, before promptly forgetting it and dropping it onto her plate. “A lot of us are… part muggle, Ron.”

“She’s right,” Harry pitches while keeping a steady hold to his own cup. 

He happened to prefer mint tea. The Dursley’s had once bought a box and despised it, throwing it away. Harry, curious about the supposed “disgusting dirt water” had fished it out, brewing it at night when no one would notice, in a microwave that smelled of spoiled meat and old lavender. He’d never gotten interested in any other type of tea, afterward -- and the minty flavor was nostalgic along with just genuinely good. 

He’s about to respond further, a retort to Ron’s arrogance already on his lips when he abruptly cuts off. 

For a moment, everything seems fine. Then, Harry and Crowley go ramrod straight in their seats,

(There were not many things that could make Crowley scared. Most of them were not easily found or repeated beyond their first inception -- the burning of a bookshop, for instance -- and there weren’t many for ordinary humans to understand in entirety regardless. Most things did not make him _scared._ What did happen, every so often, was something made him fix his posture.)

(The universe had become quite confused with all of it.)

But…

"Come,” the thing, coming from everywhere and inside and nowhere at once, hisses. It curls, curdling the air of the room and shrieking spitting syllables of murderous, chilling intent. “Come to me,” it begs, voice a miserable, sodden thing, wishing for release, for companionship.

“Let me rip you... Let me tear you... 

_“Let me kill you.”_

“Dear boy?” Aziraphale, accompanied by the noise of Crowley’s chair being shoved upward while the Demon stands, frowns. 

“I-” Crowley swallows, eyes wide and full of sharp bewilderment. Then, he whips around to Harry, whose dark skin has managed to turn ashen. “You’re hearing it too, aren’t you?”

It isn’t quite a _question_ , any longer, but Harry nods nonetheless. 

“Hear- hear what?” Ron asks, frowning. He doesn’t seem able to hear the noises at all, not even in the same hissing, nonsensical way that one should with parsletongue. 

But, he’s given no answer, as Crowley’s expression switches from confused to grave, ripping his sunglasses off and dashing from the room. Aziraphale shoves his seat backward and stands, following just as quickly. Everyone else goes rushing behind them -- Harry first, clutching the lightning streaking across his forehead -- ignoring Aziraphale’s order for them to stay. They curve through hall after hall, the light of the dimmed candles around them lighting their faces ablaze, Crowley’s movement a flurry of activity as he leads them on a mad chase, no answers given or requested.

Then, in an instant--

\-- bloody scrawls across the wall, flame ominous and bold, water soaking the dirt across the ground--

\--They stop.

“That,” Crowley says, in a small voice, yellow eyes wide in the darkness. He rubs a hand against his temple and takes a step back. There, hanging from a wall is a fleshy figure frozen from the time ticking about it. “Issss what was heard.”

Hermione takes an instinctive step back, almost falling atop Ron, who looks exceedingly pale. 

“What- what’s underneath it?” Ron asks, jerking backward and swallowing hard.

Mrs. Norris, with her matted fur and bright auburn eyes, hangs from the ceiling, tail wrapped around a candle holder. The realization of what they’re looking at sends another shock of horror through the group.

“It- It spoke to you?” Aziraphale asks, looking rather sick. “What was it?”

“Something-”

He cuts off, interrupted by the sound of footsteps. The end of dinner begins, and the sounds of well-fed students fill the halls. From either end, students amass, chattering onward.

Then, everything falls completely silent. The bustling about of students drops to a close, a theater curtain falling as each of them walks forward to see what appears to be a corpse hanging over huge, blood witing on a wall.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED,” it reads. 

“ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.”

“Enemies of the heir beware?” Malfoy’s laughter echoes sideways across the hall. “Watch out, or you’ll be next!”


	4. The Many Incompetencies of Hogwarts Staff and The Rogue Bludger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just gonna say,,,,,, I’m so exhausted. It’s horrible o’clock in the not-technically-night-anymore for me, so if this editing is less than satisfactory, I’m really sorry. I hope that it’s a fun chapter regardless!

Theres an instant of horrible, shivering silence, where no one dares to breathe, waiting for the spell to be broken and the blood to disappear.

This, naturally, is the perfect moment for Argus Filch to appear.

He’s about to start his inquiries, already glaring after any student that looks at him, when he sees his cat. He blinks, the frozen figure going unregistered for less than a second. Then, he stumbles backward, horrified, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, eyes impossibly wide and reflecting his pet in her entirety.

(Crowley  _ did  _ feel bad for Argus. No matter how cruel the man could be, it seemed that his cat was his only connection to anyone. As a creature of well over a human lifespan, the Demon understood the keen, sharp feeling of loss. He’d been feeling it since the moment he fell, watching his family being torn out from under their own feet. Having the Angel of Death as his sibling did not make the phenomenon at all uncommon.) 

“My-“ Argus looks about, searching for a culprit — someone with a raised wand, a vengeful glee in their eyes, someone to villainize — and catches sight of Crowley, standing poised to lift the cat from its brutal perch. His face wraps into hatred, hands coming down to his sides and turning into perfect fists.  _ You.  _ You killed me  _ cat!” _

“I d- no I bloody  _ didn’t!”  _ Crowley, ignoring the rage of the squib behind him, steps toward the cat. As carefully as he can, he unwinds her tail, pulling her away from her brutal perch and setting her to the ground. Throughout the movement, one thing had stayed static: the animal hadn’t moved a muscle. So, he frowns, looking back up to Argus and telling him, in no uncertain terms, that: “She’s not dead. Petrified.”

Another round of noise rings out from the crowd assembled about them. Aziraphale steps forward, coming to rest beside Crowley and running his fingers across the cat’s hide. He lets a miracle flow from his fingers — eyes closed, a subtle frown on his lips — only to look back at Crowley and see him shake his head, peering at the bundle below him curiously. 

“What’s going- my  _ goodness.”  _

The tapping of shoes against stone and the sound of fabric against the ground. Minerva, Snap, and Dumbledore appear, each in varying stages of emotions, all the way from surprise, to disgust. 

“He killed my cat!” Argus shudders forward and begins to sob, clutching a gnarled hand into the grey of his tattered clothes. “He- he killed my cat!”

“ _ Oh-  _ She isn’t even  _ dead,”  _ Aziraphale reiterates desperately. “She’s- she’s only been  _ petrified.” _

“That’s- that’s even-  _ you  _ petrified her!” Argus levels a finger at Crowley accusingly, still unwilling to concede with the possibility that the Demon Had  _ not  _ done the crime before him. “You-“

“Calm yourself, Argus,” Albus, stepping into the light of the torches around them, looks as calm as ever, sweeping robes brushing across the ground and slowly becoming immersed in the water about him. “I do not believe it is wise to continue this idea-“

“But he  _ did!  _ He petrified her!”

Minerva — reasonable, rational Minerva — turns to the groups of students gossiping about them. It paints a very strange picture, with hundreds of students watching an Angel and Demon crouch over an animal corpse, focused in concentration. Sensing no need to allow them to continue speculating, Minerva waves a hand at the people assembled. 

“Off to bed, all of you,” she instructs easily, voice unwavering and gaze stern. Each person eyes the other, clearly uneasy, as prefects and head students begin to escort their peers away.  _ “Except  _ for you three.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione nod, clearly not wanting to leave either way. 

Minerva is unfaltering as ever, turning back to the rest of the group and drawing her wand, lighting the area even more with a quick charm. 

“This isn’t normal,” Crowley mutters to himself, his expression inching closer to a desperate irritation at what he cannot quite understand. “This- this isn’t-“

“Professors — you three as well, I believe your input would be wise — please, follow me.” Albus looks at them all, nodding and gesturing for them to each follow him away in time. Despite the issues of the past, the assembled group doesn’t fight his request. Following behind Argus — who yanks his cat from Azirphale Crowley the moment he can and keeps shooting glares behind him — they trail into the nearest abandoned office. 

“She’s been petrified,” Crowley begins to explain, staring at the cat from her frozen perch in Argus’s arms. 

The slithering syllables of parsletongue. The sudden, untreatable petrification. The blood, trailing across the walls in steady writing. The reflections of the water, flame appearing within them from where it dips down above. It all seems incredibly familiar, only just on the tip of his tongue, not quite remembered, poking around at him till he can barely think about anything else.

“She’s been petrified,” he repeats once again, “By something far more dangerous than any  _ ssspell.  _ This isn’t- this is the pausing of time. This is- erg- this is an  _ end.  _ She’s not frozen, she's- she's stopped?”

“You would know,” mutters Argus in a stage whisper. “You did this!”

“He did  _ not!”  _ Harry, finally finding within himself, shouts, glaring a bundle of knives at Argus through his glasses. Despite his anxious look — the one shared between all his friends — he looks determined to argue. 

“We invited them for  _ tea,”  _ Aziraphale says pleading, nodding along and adding to the story. “When…” 

He looks at Crowley for a moment, as if asking for confirmation that he can go on. 

Then- it hits. 

“Why the fuck do you all have a  _ Basilisk  _ living here?” Crowley slams a fist into his hand in triumph at the revelation, before quickly scowling and whirling around to look at the accused group of teachers. “You- you  _ lot.” _

“A  _ what?”  _ Minerva looks aghast, looking toward Albus, who looks eerily calm. She swallows, nodding once at the idea before her eyes spark to life again and she looks back to the headmaster. “Albus, you can’t possibly think that-“

“I had suspicions.” He replies, nodding and pushing his glasses further up the crooked peak of his nose. “I was unable to confirm any of it, Minerva.”

“The Chamber Of Secrets,” Snape muses, “It  _ is  _ a mark of Slytherin, the  _ snake.” _

“The-“ Hermione, visibly fed up with every moment of the conversation, stomps her foot on the ground and becomes  _ quite  _ reminiscent of Pepper. “What are you all  _ talking about?” _

Crowley turns to her, shifting around and yanking a pair of sunglasses from his pocket to fit over his eyes. “A  _ basilisk _ is a huge bloody snake that… staressss at people. And murders them. Or- if seen indirectly, they petrify you. They’re ancient beasts, and this one is far older than any I’ve met since the first.”

“You’ve-“ Minerva, growing even more confused by the moment, turns and stares at him. “You’ve seen one before?”

“Of course I’ve- I’ve raised them! They’re perfectly harmless when they’re not- not  _ insane!” _

“Oh yeah- totally harmless. It’s killing things!” Ron starts to stutter. “Are you crazy?”

“He might be right, actually,” Snape drawls. The positions teacher -- yet another teacher that Aziraphale and Crowley call far more than just incompetent -- nods to himself, rolling his thoughts about before responding. “The basilisk is typically nonviolent unless provoked _.  _ Though…” He pauses. “That begs the question: Who, in this castle, has begun to provoke it?”

His gaze shifts to Crowley in suspicion.

“He did- have him arrested!” Filch, brandishing his frozen cat, snarls.

“Argus, please-“

“He  _ didn’t-“ _

“Do be  _ quiet!” _

Aziraphale’s voice, while not as booming as Rubeus’s, or as cold as Gabriel’s, demanded attention. He had once been a warrior. He had once had a  _ sword.  _ He was soft now -- he’d admit this to any who asked -- but that didn’t mean he was a pushover.

“Currently, the only incriminating evidence is that Crowley was found at the scene.” Aziraphale looks about, an imploring look on his face asking each person to listen to him. “And, as far as we are aware, he is the only parslemouth who can and will cooperate here, so why don’t you all just _listen to us!”_

If the room had been silent before, Aziraphale had just put the concept of noise into a coffin and nailed it shut.

“You… are a parslemouth.”

Albus considers the idea, his ever piercing gaze sharp, twisted behind the warped glass of his spectacles. His eyes dart once to Harry -- for a moment, Aziraphale wonders if he’d managed to figure out the boy’s affinity for serpents as well -- then back to Crowley, a small frown interrupting his lips.

Crowley snorts. “Sure. If that’s what you  _ lot  _ have started calling it, then ehg? I suppose.” He raises a hand, flipping it about in a sllithery manner. “Anyways, as the only person here able to talk to it, you should probably explain why you have a basilisk on school grounds.

A full explanation of the chamber of secrets later, and Argus has finally begun to calm himself. The rest of the group — mostly Harry, Ron, and Hermione — on the other hand, are sufficiently uneasy. 

“You were caught on the scene of the crime,” Argus growls, still testy, if not actively plotting to use his cat’s claws to rip Crowley’s throat out. “I want justice!”

“Argus.” Albus, gently speaking, nods to him. “You will find justice. In the meantime, I do believe that Anthony has begun to procure some Mandrakes.” He looks to the Demon in question with a vague expression. “I’m sure that they will make a fine potion to restore your cat.”

“They should,” Crowley says. He was perfectly aware that whatever was wrong with this basilisk, it was nothing normal. Still, he was  _ also  _ aware that as the vague parent of every snake and snake variation to ever exist, he should be able to scrub away the effects of what this particular breed had inflicted upon Argus’s cat.

At this, Argus nods. More satisfied than put off now, he turns to the three students left in the room. “You three can go,” he says, watching carefully as they file from the room, each looking at Crowley and Aziraphale with faces reading from concerned to grim. Soon enough, the teachers begin to leave as well, Minerva and Albus the only ones willing to give them any semblance of a goodbye. Finally, the Angel and Demon are left in the room, alone.

And, Crowley deflates.

This means slumping forward, running a hand across the skin of his face, just under his glasses and just above his neck, corporation tense. Aziraphale -- closeby, not far at all, never to be far ever again if either of them could help it -- moves toward him, taking Crowley’s hand in his own and occupying it with a gentle squeeze instead of going down his face in irritation. He tugs Crowley into a hug, one hand still clutching his, their shoulders knocking as they settle into a gently warm embrace. With the Angel’s arms in his own, Crowley brings his unoccupied hand up, splaying it across Aziraphale’s back and pressing his head into the other being’s shoulder unconsciously.

“Hell, Angel,” he mumbles, running his hand up and down the other man’s back “That wasn’t human. Wasn’t… natural.”

“You think… was it demonic?”

“I-“ he swallows, remembering each detail of the event he had witnessed with pronounced opacity, bright and stark in his mind. Then, he scowls. “What have we gotten ourselves back  _ into?” _

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits softly. He pulls away, giving a half-smile, then almost immediately allowing it to drop. He sighs with a heavy weight -- that sort of weight that even 6000 years cannot amass -- and nods. “I don’t know.”

“We just got out of thisss. We-“ Crowley curses loudly, accompanied by a single, indignant chuckle, dry and hot. “I thought we’re finally out of this, Angel.”

“It is a school for wizards, dear,” he points out solidly, gesturing about the empty office as if to show each strange intricacies of their new world. “I… don’t think it was ever going to be  _ normal.” _

Crowley gives out a more real laugh at this, bitter in a way more familiar than testy. “You might be right there. I just…” his hand throws itself into the air and swerves about, gesturing toward himself, then Aziraphale, then everything else in sight. “Didn’t expect it to be so...  _ spooky _ too.” 

“I’m a real spooky fan, me,” Aziraphale responds, nodding, faux serious. As an Angel, he did have certain duties to be less inclined to enjoy the  _ creepy  _ bits of life. Aziraphale, who had always been an avid horror genre fan, was quite terrible at this. “At least — when it’s nice.”

“A four letter  _ word,  _ that is.” Crowley flicks his tongue out in distaste -- a bit too pointy to be normal -- then picks Aziraphale’s hands up in his own, clasping them together and looking at the Angel above his glasses seriously. Yellow hits blue. “Wine?”

The white-haired figure nods resolutely.  _ “Lots  _ of wine.”

\---

“Do you think it’s true?” Ron, errantly worried, looks up to the girl with absolute trust. “Do you think there really is a chamber of secrets?”

“Yes.” She nods, voice childishly grave. “Couldn’t you tell? All the teachers now it now. Even Professor Crowley seemed worried.”

“But since there really is the Chamber Of Secrets, and it’s really been opened, who’s the heir?”

“Lets think.” The resident redead grimaces, flashing a look around to scan for intruders on their conversation. “Who do we know who thinks all muggleborns are scum?”

“If you’re talking about Malfoy-”

“Of course!” Ron presses closer to the group to avoid Malfoy’s wandering gaze, scowling as the boy walks close. “You heard him! And there’s no way its the professor.”

“It’s not,” Harry reiterates harshly. “Crowley is a  _ good person,  _ no matter how… he likes to pretend. And anyways, he’s a Gryffindor. He’s not even a real parsletongue, even if he can talk to snakes.”

“What does that mean, Harry?” Hermione frowns. “He talks to snakes, how is he  _ not  _ a parslemouth.” 

He looks to her, shrugging absently. “It  _ means,  _ he  _ is  _ The Snake. He talks to them because he is one. I’m the actual parslemouth.”

Ron nearly staggers backward dramatically, eyes widening and red hair sinking low over his brow. “You’re a  _ wot,  _ Harry?”

“Uh- yeah?” He shrugs again, thinking distantly of something more important than other languages. Then, letting the familiarly slithering syllables of snake-tongue take over, he grins.  _ “Nice, isn’t it?”  _

“Harry-” Hermione’s eyes widen, both in awe and nervousness. “That’s- that’s  _ really  _ fascinating, but don’t do it… so publicly. Not when they think the heir to slytherin is around here, and you were caught around the scene.”

“Why?” He frowns. “Oh- was Slytherin parslemouth?”

“The first one,” Hermione confirms, nodding, ignoring Harry’s vague little “ _ not the first.”  _ “Only his heir can speak it, and only his heir can open the chamber.”

“Anyways- what if Malfoy really can!” Ron, eager to continue his theory, presses onward with his protests. He thumbs backward, pointing to the Slytherin blonde’s retreating head, sneering. “Remember what he said, ‘Mione! I bet if no professors were there, he would’ve been supporting the bloody message!” 

“He’s already got two weeks detention,” Harry says, snickering. “It’s lucky he didn’t actually get detention  _ with  _ my godparents.”

“Oh?” Hermione looks over, interested. “What do they do?”

“I bet professor Crowley makes people like… prune venomous plants, or hang upside down by their ankles.” Ron laughs at himself, ignoring Harry’s indignant punch to his arm. It wasn’t actually too far from some vague conversation Harry had once overheard about hellish punishments. He had  _ not  _ stayed to listen to that conversation— they‘d apparently been hung with something  _ far  _ more painful than rope— but Crowley wasn’t a part of the torture department, so he didn’t know much either way.

“Crowley makes people water all the plants in the first greenhouse,” Harry begins, shuddering at the thought, “and Aziraphale makes people help him reshelve books.”

Ron whistles. They all knew some teachers had bad punishments, but these just seemed… weird, in comparison to Filch’s threats of whippings and Gilderoy’s torture of fan letters and plaque shining. “I would’ve thought Professor Crowley would be crueler one.”

“Oh- he still is,” Harry says nonchalantly, hardly a step away from rolling his eyes at several memories of watching his godfather glue quarters to the ground in Soho. 

They pass through the corridors silently for a moment, the noise of their footsteps across the stone floor almost the only sound to occupy them. With an almost obsessive restlessness, they glance about, looking for any sign of bloody walls and frozen figures. Sensing the end to the silence, the air freshens, lightening on their shoulders some. 

“Anyways-“ Hermione shakes her head, ponytail shaking wobbly behind her, “Malfoy, the  _ heir of Slytherin?”  _ She raises an eyebrow and glances across her friends expectantly 

“I mean- maybe Ron’s right Hermione,” Harry argues, launching right back into the conversation reflexively. “Look at his family. They’ve all been pure blooded elitists for  _ centuries.”  _

“Crabbe and Goyle must know,” Ron hisses at the side, craning his neck to stare at the rest of them. His eyes widen, a sudden epiphany hitting him. “Maybe we could trick them into telling!”

Hermione throws her head back and giggles. “Even they aren’t  _ that  _ thick…”

Suddenly, her eyes go wide, and she twirls on the spot to see them, stopping her comrades and getting a mouthful of her own hair. Once done spitting out black tousles, she continues.  _ “But _ ! There might be another way. Mind you-“ she nods to herself and continues walking, “-it would be difficult. Not to mention we’d be breaking about  _ fifty _ school rules. And, it’ll be dangerous.  _ Very dangerous.” _

They agree at once.

\---

Hermione runs her hands over the thick tomes of the library. Each spine ripples with ancient magic, imbued with centuries worth of use and age-old desire for power. She smiles, tapping at a few more quiet volumes, echoing their enthusiasm in her own pursuit of knowledge. Leafing through a few titles with curiosity, she finally plucks an advanced spellbook from within the shelves returns to Ron and Harry’s perch atop a desk. 

“Here it is,” she says breathlessly, flipping to a page with illustrations of plants and hideous transformations of a man sliding between one form and another. She wrinkles her nose, then begins to read. “The polyjuice potion. If properly brewed, the polyjuice potion allows the drinker to transform themself temporarily into the physical form of another.”

Ron leans back on his seat, impressed. “You mean- if Harry and I drink that stuff we’ll turn into Crabbe and Goyle?” 

“Yes,” Hermione confirms, eyes flitting between Ron and the book’s content as she expertly multitasks. 

“Wicked. Malfoy’ll tell us anything!”

“Exactly.” Then, her face creases, and she looks away to focus her attention on her pages. “But it’s tricky. I’ve never seen a more complicated potion.”

“Well…” Harry shrugs. “We could ask Crowley for help? He probably has all the ingredients.”

“No offense, Harry, but your godfather is under enough suspicion already,” she says distractedly. 

Harry nods -- he hadn’t been thinking of that, but he was  _ now  _ \-- and sighs, wavering. “Well, how long will it take to make?”

Their resident genius takes a deep breath, worrying at her lip for a moment before looking up and releasing her skin, eyebrows creased with half-apologetic worry. 

“A month.”

“A month!” Harry grimaces. “Hermione, if he is the Heir of Slytherin, he could attack half the muggleborns in the school by then. Not to mention- I  _ really  _ don’t want to get either of my godparents fired. Or  _ arrested.  _ I’ve heard the wizarding prisons are really awful.”

Ron snorts. “Thats’an understatement. Azkaban is like… Blimey, it’s like hell on earth.”

Harry nods seriously, planning to confirm this with his more Hell-inclined godparent later. At the moment, he continues looking at Hermione, a bit of well-placed begging in his eyes as they dart between her and her book. “Is there nothing else we can do?” 

She shakes her head. “I know it’s a long time… But it’s the only plan we’ve got.”

\---

Harry, with quite a bit of nervousness, wakes up early on the next Saturday morning to rear its golden head. The sun stands bright above the clouds, misty dew soaking the grounds outside and eating away at the land below, obscuring a large mass of the world. Harry sits in the cubby between window and dorm, staring outside as he tugs his quidditch robes on over a basic t shirt and athletic joggers. The view outdoors does nothing to quell his anxiety — the first match of the year, and he was rightly terrified — partly because he knew Slytherin had fantastic brooms, and partly because he knew Oliver would skin them alive if they lost.

After half an hour of silent worrying and staring about outside, he manages to tug himself downstairs to breakfast early. The Gryffindors have already huddled together, taking up a small corner of the empty house table and murmuring nervous reassurances about their mass.

“You lot look sorry,” Crowley pitches, as he comes wandering over, accompanied by Aziraphale, arm in arm. “You’re all about to beat Slytherin and you’re  _ sad?” _

“They’ve got two thousand and ones, professor,” Katie murmurs gloomily, stirring her bowl of porridge and letting it make loud, wet noises. 

“You-” Aziraphale lets out a chuckle. “Do all of you really think that silly little broomstick is what makes them  _ stronger?  _ Lest you forget, Malfoy is a  _ new  _ seeker.”

“Brand new,” Crowley adds suggestively. “So brand new, that-”

“-He’s probably incompetent,” Aziraphale finishes, looking over to the Demon against his arm and nodding, then back to their group with a confident, soft smile. “Not to be too rude. Apologies.”

“Don’t apologize, Angel.”

“But…” Oliver, sullen, blinks at them with the owlish qualities of a man just punched in the face. “The brooms?”

“What if Malfoy can’t fly for shit?” Crowley asks, nodding his head, his hair bouncing behind him. Aziraphale nods as well, his curly white hair staying almost perfect regardless of the movement. 

“Language, dear. But Crowley  _ is  _ right. Young Mr. Malfoy might not be able to fly at all. Doesn’t this game take talent?”

He angles the final question at Harry, who lets out a snort into his bowl and nods. 

“He is right,” Fred says, shrugging, seemingly the only one with the carefree wish to be optimistic in the slightest. He raises a hand, setting his elbow on the table and waving his fingers around, sneering. “And Malfoy’s not great at much of  _ anything.” _

“Anything of anything,” George continues eagerly.

“Just bigotry,” Alicia finishes, though she doesn’t sound nearly as downtrodden as she had. “You really think we have a chance?”

Harry’s godparents glance across the team, then at each other, then back once again. They nod.

“Absolutely.”

Eleven fast approaches once breakfast and practice are said and done, and students begin to make their way down to the quidditch field. The day turns out to be less golden than the morning, with clouds and rainfall threatening the air and making the humid scent of moss fill its occupant’s noses. Soon enough, hands are shaken, rules are read, and the game begins with a shrieking whistle and intense ferocity from either side. 

The game starts out simple enough. Harry hovers around the middle field, darting about and searching for any hint of golden shine as Lee Jordan calls scores and the fans below call their approval and hatred. He flies higher and higher above the grounds, avoiding any manner or bludger, bat or opponent, before he finally sees the snowy white of Malfoy’s hair rising toward him. 

“Alright up there, scarhead?” he shouts, whizzing past and just below Harry, as if to show off the effortless skill of his broom. A smile affixed to his face, Malfoy rises, coming up to eye level with the other boy. 

Harry, who had not  _ wanted  _ to reply, is given no chance to. A heavy black bludger goes streaking past his face, whistling in the wind and almost taking off his ear. He dodges it at the last moment, going spinning smoothly away and gasping out a breath at the all-too-close call. 

“Close one, Harry!” Calls George, bat in his hands. He gives the bludger a mighty hit, sending it soaring through the air -- right at the Slytherin keeper -- until suddenly, it swings backward in its track and dives straight for Harry once again.

He swerved again, managing to avoid the ball in a frantic maneuver as it goes whistling past. George hits it again -- this time right at Malfoy -- but again, it goes flying in an adamant path right back to Harry. 

He tries diving to the left of the field, nearly flinging himself out of the game entirely. The bludger is persistent, whistling toward him and only floundering out of the way when Fred lets out a whoop and smacks his bat into it, hard. It doesn’t stay dettered for long, though, as it goes back to chasing after Harry insistently. 

“This-” Fred gives it another hit, George and his twin now both circling in on Harry and smacking hard at the bludger while it continues its assault. “This bludger’s been tampered with!”

“Leave it!” Harry roars. “I can’t get the snitch if you stay here!”

‘Are you absolutely suicidal?” Goerge turns to face him, almost getting a mouthful of bludger before Fred manages to lunge across and punt it through the sky, listening to its indignant scream before it comes rattling back around, quick as lightning. “You’re not gonna die getting this snitch!”

“I’ll be fine,” he responds, rather desperate now. He  _ needed  _ to win this match. Something in his expression seems to convince the twins, as they nod to him and fly off together, still thwacking the bludger as hard as they can as they go, giving it one last pitch of effort before surveying the one other untampered bludger still beating about in the game, settling for having  _ everyone  _ as a target instead of just Harry.

So, he resumes. He swoops up then down, back then forth, each dive evading the massive leather-skinned ball for as long as he can, hair flush to his skull and glasses threatening to fly away in the wind. 

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” Malfoy’s sneering face chases after him, eyes taunting and twinkling with a jagged, cruel mirth. Harry’s forced to evade him, twirling in midair and stopping only long enough to see the snitch -- right beside Malfoy’s ear.

Then -- there’s a massive  _ WHAM,  _ as the bludger slams into flesh. Caught in the balls way, Malfoy doubles over, falling from his broom with a choked noise and gripping where the bludger had probably broken several of his ribs. He flies to the ground with a broken noise, immobile and covered in dust. The snitch darts -- once, twice -- farther and farther, and Harry has no choice but to feel the sickening  _ crack  _ of his own arm where the bludger careens into it and breaks it. 

For a single, awful moment, all he can feel is the horrible pain of snapped bone. He sinks forward on his broom, dizzy eyes slowly shutting against an onslaught of darkness. There’s only one thought in his mind, as he tries to collect himself.

_ Get the snitch.  _

So, he lurches forward on his broom, closing his fingers around the metal of the minuscule ball and falling until only his legs clutch his broomstick. The crowd screams at his peril, but he only dimly hears the roar as his broom — and him by extension — finally sinks to the ground.

With a sound of splattering mud, he falls into the ground, rolling off his broom and barely missing Malfoy’s frozen, unconscious form. His arm hangs at a backward angle, a strange lump of what was probably bone sticking out and pressing against his skin, burning with a horrible pain that scratches and itching against his skin. From a distance, he can hear the roaring din of the crowd, and the pattering of footsteps against mud as several people come racing up to the field and toward the two players injured on the ground. 

He isn’t quite sure when he passes out. His eyes are open, focused on his bone and the snitch, for one moment, then he finds himself blinking blearily upward. He catches glimpses of red and white hair, the sky above more clouded than ever when he comes too. 

“Fuck  _ off  _ Lockhart!” Crowley, sitting on his haunches next to Harry, turns, standing up and snapping his fingers. Very suddenly, Lockhart — who had been about to speak, probably trying to fix and subsequently ruin Harry’s bones — is gone, disappearing in a flash. Distantly, Harry realizes that Aziraphale is talking to him.

“Harry? Oh- you’re awake, thank goodness.” His face creases in wirt “Can you stand, dear?”

For a moment, he doesn’t quite register the question. Then, he blinks again, and the world comes back into focus. The bludger is a pile of ash next to Harry. Malfoy is being carried off in a stretcher, Madame Pomfrey already raving in irritation by his side. Then, Harry realizes that he can’t quite feel his arm at  _ all. _

“I-” he swallows. “I think? I can’t… feel my arm.”

“Yeah, courtesy of Lockhart,” grumbles Crowley, helping Harry to sit up where he turns back around. He takes a look at Harry’s arm -- flopping back and forth wetly -- and groans. “What an  _ idiot.” _

“Where- Where is he, Anthony?” Minerva, looking confused -- not angered, or nervous, perhaps even  _ thankful --  _ walks toward them, gesturing to where Lockhart had been only a moment before. 

“Eh- he’ll come back if he knows his way around muggles.”

(He was, in fact, in a gas station in North America, currently being accosted by a muscled, bearded man, who was asking him why he was dressing up like a lesbian.)

“Ah- that’s fine then,” Minerva says sharply. “Can you bring Potter to the infirmary?”

The two look at Harry -- already making an attempt to stand -- and nod. 

They make their way back to the campus with the rest of the Gryffindor team, each congratulating Harry without their usual enthusiastic back-claps. By the time they arrive, Madame Pomfrey is already shouting angrily at the group about Malfoy -- slumped over, looking rightly miserable -- and she actually  _ growls  _ when Harry comes into her sigh. 

“He should’ve been brought straight to me!” She says, bringing Harry to a bed and settling him there with all the fury of a matronly figure scorned. “Where is Lockhart, the blithering idiot?”

“I sent him out,” Crowley says, grinning casually through the backlash of the light within the room hitting his sunglasses. “He’ll probably get fired soon enough, knowing  _ Lucius.” _

“He deserves to be sacked,” Ron grumbles, finally joining them all. Even Hermione looks irritated at her defense against the dark arts teacher, admiration and attraction damned. “And not just for Malfoy, obviously, the guy’s a blithering idiot!”

“Now, I can mend bones in a second,” Madame Pomfrey interrupts, snapping her fingers as if to demonstrate. “But bringing them back…”

“You can bring them back, right?” Harry asks desperately, clutching the limp flesh-sack of his arm. 

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but you’ll have to stay overnight.” She hands him a stack of folded pajamas. 

Everyone else -- minus his godparents, they’d had to go talk to Dumbledore about Lockhart -- stands outside the drawn curtain while Ron helps Harry into his pajamas. The difficulties of pulling sleeves over a limp, gelatin limb is not much helped by the extra pair of helping hands. Harry stumbles through his clothes, grimacing at the mess smeared all across his quidditch robes. Finally, and after quite a bit of work, Ron yanks the curtain back and Harry sits back down on the bed, eyeing Madam Pomfrey with a wary eye.

“You’re in for a rough night,” she tells him grimly, handing him a breaker of steaming liquid that had just come from a bottle labeled “skele-gro.” Its a large, strangely imposing bottle, all bones and angles caressed in black. “Re-growing bones is a nasty business.”

Taking the Skele-gro was a particular agony. It  _ hurt.  _ Not like a broken bone, though. It burnt, up and down his chest, arching through his arm and making his taste buds wish they could be anywhere else. It tasted harshly of bitter, dirty water, with the slightest aftertaste of very burnt meat. Malfoy -- who had apparently been the less fortunate of the two when it came to Lockhart’s ineptitude -- didn’t seem to fair any better, cough from his spot settled wobbly against his pillow. 

Though, he’s finally able to sleep in the soft rapture of warmth that his blanket provides him, and the feverish type of heat that sends someone into dreamland, leaching from his arm. Hours later -- quite a few, if the darkness of the night was any indication -- Harry wakes up to a stabbing pain in his arm. At first, he wonders who could be trying to wake him up in the dark of night. 

Then-

“What the  _ hell?”  _ He yelps, jumping up in his bed, eyes catching on a small, miserable figure beside him and shaking his arm. A house elf, tears trailing down his crooked nose and tiny, shaking hands bandaged with cloth. Harry props his arms up on his pillow — wincing and folding his left to his chest instead — and stares at it as the figure begins to sob. 

"Harry Potter came back to  _ school," _ the tiny figure whispers miserably, wringing his hands. "Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?"

Harry pauses, taking in the onslaught of random information from the figure beside him. “I-  _ what?  _ Are you why I missed the train?” He jams his glasses on his face and glares more sufficiently at the house elf, who just manages to look even more miserable. “You- who are you?”

“I- I am  _ Dobby,  _ Sir, Mr. Harry Potter.’ He bows, very nearly toppling over and off the side of the bed before he straightens, sitting down and trying to wipe the wetness from his eyes with burnt palms. "Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward.” Now, he lifts his injured fingers, wiggling them and gesturing to the angry red skin against his grey-pale flesh. "but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way!”

He starts to sob once again, rocking back and forth and clutching at his head in a pitiful tony, prompting Harry to start shushing him in a frantic panic to make the elf stop. "Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never  _ had _ , sir.”

“You’re lucky my godparents got Ron and I through,” Harry says sullenly as he realizes the house elf is not going to stop sobbing, slumping back into his pillows. 

Then, there’s a loud groan of irritation across the room. Harry whips his head up — he’d thought he was alone — only to realize who was still there.  _ Draco Malfoy  _ casts him an annoyed gaze, before his eyes widen and he shoots forward at the sight of Dobby the house elf sitting on Harry’s cot. 

“You! What are you-”

“Master- augh!” Dobby cowers backward as Malfoy comes stuttering up, fists balled and hair a stringy mess now that he hasn’t been able to style it, afraid of the tiny boy before him, now looking more uncomfortable than anything,”Please, Dobby is- is a wretched creature- is- Dobby is-”

“Oh, shut up.” Malfoy turns to Harry, glaring and throwing an arm forward petulantly. “What’re  _ you  _ doing here?”

“Regrowing my arm,” Harry replies, sullen and glaring just as hard. “You arse.”

Malfoy lets out a harsh, mirthless chuckle, and clutches Dobby’s… towel. Despite Harry’s annoyance at the elf, he has a strange impulse to wrench him away from Malfoy’s slimy clutches. “What did you tell him, you blithering half-wit?”

“Hey!” Halfway through Dobby’s panicked explanations, Harry makes up his mind to not let Malfoy get an upper hand, and gets up from the bed to yank the elf out of the way. “Leave him  _ alone,  _ Malfoy!” He pulls the tiny creature backward, tugging him out of Malfoy’s grip. 

“He’s- he’s mine anyway.” With one last sneer, Malfoy settles, crossing his arms and, to Harry’s surprise, leaving the matter alone. He segueways instead, snorting. “What did you mean, your  _ godparents.  _ You haven’t  _ got  _ any family.”

“Oh, you’d know loads about family,” Harry says snottily, Dobby sitting beside him and sobbing harshly into his bedsheets. “With your fascist and racist dad, and your-”

“My dad isn’t  _ racist-” _

“Oh?” Harry raises an eyebrow skeptically, higher than the edge of his glasses. “What do you call hating anyone whose parents aren’t both wizards.”

“They’re-”

“Not as good as  _ pure  _ wizards?” He snorts in return, rolling his eyes in the dark gloom of the room. “Hermione’s got better marks than anyone in our year, even the Ravenclaws. Seamus Finnigan? He’s the best for offensive spells out of any of you. You’re friends with Crabbe and Goyle. Can they ever  _ read?” _

Malfoy considers this for a moment, head cocked. “I guess you’re right about that last part. But they’re great protection, you know. Besides, why do you hang out with…” He waves a hand in vague irritation, as if every muggle-born witch Harry had ever met was standing before Malfoy. “Granger, and that blood traitor  _ Weasley?  _ You’ve got such a decent bloodline. You’re almost part of  _ the  _ twenty-eight.” 

“Because…” 

Harry considers his answer, for a moment. He knew why he loved his two friends -- they were brilliant, incredibly loyal, and had thousands of other redeeming qualities he would have no trouble listing. But this was  _ Malfoy.  _ During his first year, Aziraphale had taken him aside and spoken to him about why Malfoy was who he was. It wasn’t like Harry would be able to give him a  _ real  _ explanation. Malfoy was at the height of privilege. He knew things that Harry wouldn’t dream about— but this led to just as much ignorance as it did power. 

“Because they’re kind,” he finally explains, nodding in satisfaction. “To me, to- to each other, to everyone else. They’re good people.”

“What does being good have to do with it?” Malfoy, who looks significantly less unpleasant without a nasty sneer, settles on a bed across from Harry and rubs the warped surface of his chest where his bones had to have been hurting. He winces, and turns back to Harry. “I just want people who are  _ loyal.” _

“Well… They- they  _ are  _ loyal,” he demands. Malfoy looks a bit put off at that -- as if being  _ nice  _ and  _ loyal  _ was too much, and one ought to compromise for one or the other -- and frowns. “People haven’t always been nice to me. Its a nice change of place -- them an’ my godparents.”

“Who are they? Your godparents.”

“None of y’ business,” Harry looks away, listening to the spitting of dying candles nearby. “How come you don’t have any real friends, eh?”

“I  _ do.  _ Just for better reasons than you do,” the boy responds harshly. “I’d rather-”

Then- they both cut off, the noise of someone walking down the halls taking sudden precedent. Malfoy -- if he could look any paler -- pales, dashing back over to his bed on perfectly silent footsteps. Sony is gone, Malfoy and Harry have returned to beneath their covers, and the room has gone cold with nervousness by the time the intruders enter the hospital wing. 

Harry, peaking out from the lowest edge of his blanket, watched as Crowley, Madame Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore lift a frozen figure up upon the bed adjacent to the stretcher it had lied on. 

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey hisses, just under her breath and still in her sleeping gowns. 

“Another attack,” Crowley answers gravely, a tinge OC worry to his voice. His eyes dart to Harry, once, then to Malfoy, then back to his predicament as if no one had been there at all. “I found him on the stairs- heard the serpent, tried to talk to it. It’s…”

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” McGonagall, says sharply. “Have we got any time..?”

“No.” Harry can imagine his godfather shaking his head, hissing between his teeth in the dark of the room where blackness closes in too much for Harry to see. “No it’s- the thing is out of its mind.  _ Insane.  _ Any snake in its right mind would listen to me, this- this  _ atrocity  _ has been driven mad. If we don’t find the chamber ssssoon, then we’ll be  _ fucked.” _

“Petrified again?” Madam Pomfrey whispers, fingers skittering across the students robes, nearly as frozen as the figure they trace. 

Harry begins to lift himself, begging for a look -- catching a glimpse of a terrified mask, a camera clutched in frozen hands, Colin Creevey’s face in bare horror -- then drops, silent. The air in the room presses in tightly as he examines the scene in his mind, eyes darting about behind his glasses and guilty thoughts racing. If his godfather wasn’t able to talk to the basilisk, who  _ could?  _

“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?” McGonagall asks eagerly, as she pulls the students camera from his hands, a soft cracking of knuckles accompanying the movement and making Harry wince. 

Dumbledore doesn’t respond. The camera does, naturally, as the back is opened, a poof of smoke coming forth and a noise like a small explosion being summoned in. Each person scuffles backward, surprised at the noise and horrified at the implications. 

“All melted…” Madam Pomfrey swallows and finally draws her hands away from Colin, wiping the absence of physical residue off onto her hastily-toed apron. “All… melted,” she repeats, softer, more steady and sure of the idea. 

“So… That’s it. The Chamber of Secrets is opened.” Crowley, glaring at everything and no one at all, sighs heavily, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips as he lets out a low, soft hissing noise. “What in the  _ Heavens.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy and Harry are NOT going to snap their fingers and become best friends forever. Not by a long shot. BUT: I do want them to be at the very barest tentative allies in like, the next two books. That may change. Drarry is endgame, but there is an incredible amount of development that needs to be done first.
> 
> Anyways. Hope you’re all well! As always, kudos, comments, funny little notes in your bookmarks make me so happy. Until next time. :))


	5. The Dueling Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygoshimsosorry.
> 
> Life has been kicking my ass. I’ve been in a super severe art+writing block at the same time as a really bad depression. This chapter has taken me AGES to write, and I think that my lack of energy sort of reflects in this one :( so I am so so sorry if it’s not up to par. Hopefully, whether it takes a while or not, the next chapter will be better!
> 
> Now, I want to address some subjects in his chapter:
> 
> Harry, nearing the end of the chapter, starts getting worried that he’s turning into his abusers. He think about feeling bad for hating the Dursleys, etc. THIS ISN’T HOW ABUSE IS FOR EVERYONE. If people automatically hate their abusers with no guilt, I am so so happy that we’re able to do so. I’m basing Harry’s worry off of something similar to my own. That feeling of knowing exactly what happened to you was bad, but still being so conditioned to being resigned to it that anger feels cruel. He knows he’s been hurt and he knows he’s aloud to be angry about it, but he can’t help the feelings either way.
> 
> Now, after that wall of text, here’s the story. I hope you enjoy! :)

Harry, waking up early in the start of a new morning, finds his arm reboned and ready for use. The one setback -- its violent stiffness. He spends his breakfast clumsily eating porridge, adapting to his new one-handed lifestyle as quickly as he can and sneaking glances toward Colin’s bed whenever he can. It’s been shrouded in white curtains, shielded off from any wandering glances as perceptive as his. Deigning Madam Pomfrey’s rage a good deterrent, he returns to his porridge and ignores the bed.

“You can leave as soon as you’re done eating,” She tells him after casting one more worried glance at the petrified boy’s bed. She glances at Harry and nods succinctly. He nods back, trying to keep his porridge from going flying out of his hands as he moves.

The moment she leaves the room, he's hit with the sudden thought to get up and yank the curtain away from Collin. It’s almost unnerving, how quiet the room is, even with Harry’s knowledge. That quiet is interrupted by Malfoy’s footsteps, as he starts limping toward Harry and ruining all thought of adventure. Harry gives him a half grimace -- the other boy looks painfully determined to bother him, no matter how disgruntled he appears -- and leans back.

“Your favorite professor is a  _ parselmouth.” _

The words rip from his chest as if it makes him prouder than a lion to make the discovery. He hisses in victorious vindication, a gleeful snarl poised in his expression. The look falters, of course, the moment that Harry only gives him a pensive, sluggish, shrug.

“I know,” he responds, pleasantly and getting quite a bit of pleasure out of watching the other boy’s expression warp. “I assume he’s probably been one since birth.”

“I-” Malfoy jerks away, frowning harder now. “That means he’s the  _ heir.  _ He’s been petrifying all your precious little mudbloods.”

“Shut  _ up,  _ Malfoy.” Suddenly finding himself irritated again, Harry throws his covers up and off, leaning forward to glare more effectively. “You- I’ve known him for a very long time. And he is  _ not  _ the heir. He isn’t even a pureblood.”

The other boy turns a bit aghast at this, lurching backward. “He’s- but he’s- he’s so-”

“Impressive?” Harry scoffs. “He isn’t half blood either.”

Malfoy, who looks like he might’ve once been rather impressed with the Demon, blanches. “What- what  _ is  _ he, then?”

“Harry- oh. Mr. Malfoy?”

The Slytherin in question whips around, eyes wide, sneering as the subject of their conversation enters the room, sauntering about with vague, unsure steps, arm crooked in an Angel’s. “Why are-”

“We do happen to work here,” Crowley interrupts, tossing a pile of folded clothes onto Harry’s bed. “Why are you still here, anyways? Haven’t you got…”

“...Healing to be doing?” Aziraphale wonders aloud, finishing the Demon’s sentence and giving the two boys a perfectly angelic smile. His hair glows in the rays of the morning light, everything about him perfectly genuine. It seems that his mood can’t be crushed. Crowley, on the other hand, looks as grumpy as anything. 

“I’m-” Malfoy, searching for an answer, glares in anger. “I’m going to do what I  _ want.” _

Then, prancing back to his own bed, Malfoy resumes eating his breakfast, pretending not to watch their little group and glaring down at the oats below him. 

“Oh, did I say something wrong?” Aziraphale grimaces worriedly, glancing at Crowley.

“Nah. He needs someone to be harsher with him, anyways. The twerp.”

““He thinks you’re-“ Harry cocks his head and looks at Crowley, squinting, “-quarter blood or something, now. I said you weren’t halfblood or pureblood.”

Crowley barks out a laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What’s he think Aziraphale is?”

“An armadillo, I expect,” Aziraphale responds — as if reciting an age old joke — before frowning. “I do  _ like  _ armadillos. They’re funny little things.”

“Armored,” Crowley muses, before waving a hand in dismissal. “Eh. Anyways, good job on that last match, Harry. You won Gryffindor fifty points.”

At this, he brightens. It wasn’t that Gryffindor had any great shortage of points, but knowing that Wood wouldn’t be disappointed was always good. Him in a bad mood meant more training. 

The two leave the room after a moment of discussion, leaving Harry to get dressed and glare blithely at his nemesis, still hiding in his porridge and pushing messy lengths of hair back from his face. He leaves before Madam Pomfrey has a chance to return, walking quickly through the halls and massaging his arm. As soon as his feet echo through new pools of water, he finds his destination.

“It’s me,” he announces, as he slams the girl’s bathroom door shut behind him. There, before him, sit Hermione and Ron, the former settled on the floor and stirring a pot of what appears to be a thick,vomity substance. It bubbles and boils like heated water, chunky and dark like some sort of inhuman excrement. Harry wrinkles his nose and takes a step back, Ron shooting him a similarly distasteful look. “Is that it?”

Hermione nods. “Nasty potion, polyjuice.”

“We would’ve come to get you, Harry,” Ron tells him, shrugging himself off the wall and wandering over. He gestures to the potion. “But we decided to get started on it.” 

“Right, that’s ok.” He nods, coming closer and lowering his voice secretively. There might not be anyone around, but he was cautious still. “But- there's been another attack. Colin Creevey-“

“We know, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes flicker to Ron, and they share a worried glance. “We heard Professor McGonagall tell Professor Flitwick this morning.”

“We figured we’d should get started,” Ron finishes. “The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better. D'you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, he took it out on Colin as soon as his ribs came back.”

Harry, suddenly remembering the night before, shakes his head vigorously. “No! No it’s not Malfoy at all. He’s a git, but he didn’t do it. I woke up in the middle of the night — right before the attack, y’know — and he never left once.”

“Wait- was he asleep?”

“Yes- erm- he  _ was.” _

Harry explains the circumstances hastily, laughing a bit at the way Ron’s face purples at the 

“How did your godfather not see it?” asks Hermione confusedly. “If it’s so  _ big,  _ and he can talk to it, then what do you think it’s doing to escape?”

“I dunno. Can snakes turn invisible?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t… think so.”

“Maybe it can disguise itself?” Suggests Hermione, stirring the pot distractedly. “I’ve read about chameleon ghouls…”

“And  _ I’ve  _ heard about basilisks.” Harry shakes his head. “They don’t turn invisible, and they can’t transform. This thing is… bad.” 

—-

To the teacher’s dismay, the news of Colin’s fate spreads rapidly across the school. The air turns to a suffocating whirl of rumors, distrust and anger. Names are thrown, fingers are pointed, and new students crop up with “sightings” of the serpent every day. A veritable black market of talismans, charms and protection wards start circling around as result. A few of the more religion-inclined witches and wizards start to sell spells aligned with deity power, sealed with wax or kept in crystal. Aziraphale and Crowley try to be a bit less sparing with their miracles, then, tapping shoulders and snapping fingers to give the most nervous of students a bit of good fortune. 

Unfortunately for Crowley, as “punishment” for tossing Lockhart halfway across nowhere, he’s meant to take over for him — forcing him to teach his classes, take over his after school duties, and work with  _ Snape  _ to keep up their  _ dueling club.  _

So, on one surprisingly bright afternoon, he finds himself waking up early in the morning and pulling on a set of unnaturally breathable robes. Black, clean and fashionable, he tucks the folds of the fabric behind him and keeps a more modern outfit — he  _ will  _ not follow Dumbledore’s dress code — beneath. Times finds him standing on a bright purple dueling platform, facing Snape with a wary eye and waiting for the rest of Lockhart’s remaining fans into the room. Really, he finds himself wondering how Malfoy’s injuries hadn’t gotten Lucius on the professor’s case yet. 

“Alright, alright.” Crowley marches forward on the platform, surveying the crowd of amassed students with hands on his hips and silencing them quickly. Despite the knowledge of Lockhart’s departure spreading quite quickly, it seems that some people are still irritated to see Crowley in his stead. Stranger still, a number of them seem relieved. “Quiet down! 

Once the group cools down to a manageable level of badly concealed whispers, Crowley makes his mood. He struts with all the confidence of a snake trying to conceal their nerves, leaning back with a swagger to his steps and brandishing his wand. Despite his best efforts, he can feel irritation swimming in his gut. His spell work is lacking, for someone who was meant to be a wizard of his age. Still, seeing Aziraphale in the background is enough to make him shrug off any anxiety he might’ve felt. 

“Due to Professor Lockhart’s  _ unfortunate  _ vacation, I’ll be taking over his little duel club.” He picks his hand out of the air, gesturing with his wand, a little flickering of yellow light coming from its end and trailing after him where he walks. Extra magic was nothing new to him nor Aziraphale — Harry and Adam had a habit of accidentally summoning things and making small objects explode. Apparently, occult and ethereal as they were, the Angel and Demon were no exception. 

“Apparently-“ he gestures to the man across from him, who bristles indignantly at the flippant way Crowley gestures are him, “-Professor Snape was meant to be his assistant. That means that he’ll be working with me now.”

Then, turning to the second professor, he shrugs. “I suppose we’d better do a demonstration, then. Ngk.  _ Now-  _ I know that as seasoned professors, we might seem like experts of dueling to students. That is  _ not  _ the case.” He raises his wand. “No one is a blood  _ expert  _ of  _ anything.  _ That’s why we’ll be showing you how to disarm and shield first.”

He turns around, meeting Snape’s sneer with a blank, resting face of basic irritation. They bow stiffly, sweeping down low then coming back up, holding their wands out in front of themselves.

“This is accurate combative positioning,” Crowley recites dutifully. He’d only just learned any of this two nights ago. “In a moment, I will show you how to properly block a spell.”

Snape takes a step forward, breaking from his spot and raising his wand. Silently, he casts a nameless spell, a jet of bright red light coming thrown from the wand. Crowley waves his wand about him, a rippling blue shield bubbling up where it absorbs the hex. The group of students below them murmur with fascination as Snape casts another charm, Crowley’s shield taking in each blow, unyielding. 

Then, with a movement almost too fast to be seen, the shield falls and Snape’s wand goes flying. Crowley disarms the professor and nods, letting the vexed professor lean over to retrieve it.

Now, he turns again to the group below them. “Those were shield and disarm charms. The first-” Crowley waves his hand, letting blue crawl outward in a warping, swimming shield shape “-Is protego. This will summon a shield that blocks…. Erm,  _ almost  _ all charms that are sent your way. This-” He shifts his hand, angling his wand up to the ceiling and focusing, sending a candle flying to the ground. “-Is expelliarmus. It disarms an opponent.”

“Now, I sssupose we’d ought to let you practice.” he waves an arm about. “Pair up.”

Crowley watches as each person finds a partner — some begrudgingly finding people who weren’t their friends, it seems — and nods at the generated halves. In a momentary lapse of attention, he finds that  _ Snape  _ has made his way over to Harry and Malfoy, standing unfortunately near each other. 

_ Shit. _

“Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter, Malfoy.” Giving the blonde boy a vicious smile, Snape prods the two up the stairs to the platform. The Demon shoots a glance to Aziraphale — still in the back of the crowd, looking a bit worried now — and is forced to step off the platform and watch.

Well, at the very least, he can  _ try _ to help.

“Face your partners,” he says loudly, glaring once at Snape then refocusing on the two above him. Harry does so confidently, not even sparing a passing glance at Crowley. A bit of pride hits him, watching his godson’s unfaltering gaze. “And  _ disarm only.  _ Any dirty play will result in-”

Harry stumbles backward as Malfoy prematurely sets off a charm, giggling at the way that the boy grips his head. Crowley is about to intervene when Harry continues, shouting “ _ rictusempra!”  _ before anyone can blink. Malfoy bows in half, clutching his stomach and wheezing in pain.

“I said  _ disarm only!”  _ Crowley, now significantly more angry, starts to march up to the platform. He makes the final step when Malfoy rightens, a grimace twisting his features into something more menacing, bordering on cruel with anger.

“Serpensortia!” He spits, his wand waving in a loop and a long, scaled coil of  _ something _ bursting forth. It goes flying into Harry, landing a foot in front of him and startling the boy back a step. Malfoy looks smugly forward, daring anyone to intervene as a snake whistles out its very first hiss. 

“Don’t move, Potter,” Snape lazily drawls. He hurries back onto the platform, eyes narrowed in concentration as he poises to set off a charm. “I’ll get rid-”

_ “Slifai…”  _

Snape flinches away, a twitch of his mouth an indication of what might’ve been fear. He suppresses it, raising his wand, just as Harry repeats his clear command.

The snake cocks it’s head at the boy, watching with an intelligent, confused wonder and letting out another hiss as Harry carefully selects another step forward. The rest of the room stills to a close as Harry continues, muttering instruction under his breath, eyes narrowed in intense focus. The light streaming in from the window bounces off of his glasses, a line of sweat trickling down his brow. 

_ “Sine…” _

The snake, seeming to get bored with Harry’s pleading, turns its head toward a young hufflepuff boy, blanching as white as the moon. The moment it looks at him, he stumbles backward, looking for support from the nervous faces of his peers. None is offered, as his breathing quickens and heart starts to beat, fast with fear and panic. 

_ “Hey!” _

The snake stops short, lidded eyes opening in an expression of wonder. It turns, body coiled in a position to strike out, tongue darting out to smell the air. 

Then, it lets out a smooth, quick hiss, suddenly with an attitude of almost reverence. It slips to the ground, crawling ever closer to Crowley. 

_ “Slifai!”  _ The rest of the students watch as Crowley glares, hissing out parsletongue as his godson had done only a moment before. “You heard him!” He continues, syllables rolling with contempt and irritation. The snake slithers toward him as the crowd gasps, expecting a bite and instead seeing Crowley now over to let it crawl up his arm, looping around his neck affectionately.

_ “Sorry,”  _ it whispers to him, flicking its tongue out right next to the Demon’s ear.  _ “It woke me up. It took me away.” _

Crowley nods, listening and growing progressively more annoyed, frown warping to a sneer. He turns to Malfoy with a look of peeved irritation, the boy standing silent and frozen across the stage, eyes wide with curiosity at the events unfolding and the slightest hint of fear. 

“You!” Crowley shouts, almost missing the way Malfoy flinches. “Twenty points from Slytherin for… messing with this poor snake.  _ And  _ for going on the offensive.” Then, he turns to Harry, giving him a half-smirk of obvious pride before rolling his eyes at the returned grin. “Five points from Gryffindor,” he says sternly, almost laughing at the way Harry droops. “We instructed you both to  _ disarm only.”  _

To his surprise, when he turns to address the crowd of students below him, he’s greeted with fear and surprise. All interest, boredom and readiness have been quelled, warped into something akin to terror so quickly. 

“Erm. Class dismissed,” he says hurriedly, reaching a hand to his neck in nervous reflex and letting the snake curl down his arm, up his elbow and hissing again, happier now to find a real perch. “Let that be a lesson to  _ listen  _ to  _ inssstructions!” _

After a few, awkward moment of the sort of confused silence that a crowd gains after seeing something so strange they’re shocked into quiet, the room starts to dissolve. Each person leaves and immediately begins to gossip, rushing to try and explain what they’d just witnessed. Aziraphale, too, leaves to help guide students to their classes, Ron Hermione and Harry the only three left. 

Ron and Hermione race up to the stage the moment they can, eyes wide and gesticulating wildly about as they attempt to ask questions. Finally, after three minutes of wild, frenzied, incomprehensible discussion, they fall silent. Then:

“You two are- are  _ parselmouths,”  _ Ron says breathlessly. He looks between Harry and Crowley, shocked, falling instantly silent again. 

“Erm. Yes?” Harry looks up to Crowley, the two of them sharing twin shrugs. “I mean, that's only the second time  _ I've  _ ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor loose at a zoo. It wanted to see Brazil, and it just… happened.”

“I do it because I am a snake,” Crowley says with an ungainly snort. “I don’t use parseltongue any more than  _ you _ use “Humantongue.”

“But-” Hermione shoots them both concerned looks. “You do know that… it is a  _ very  _ rare ability, right?”

“It’s- this is  _ bad,  _ Harry.” Ron takes a step forward, not meeting his friend or instructor’s eyes. “The last known parseltongue…”

Hermione, noticing his hesitation, bites her lip and makes the split decision to speak. “It’s a symbol of Salazar Slythein, Harry. Only his direct descendants can speak it.”

Crowley, growing more and more despondent by the second, takes this moment to throw his hands up in absolute defeat. The snake on his arm hisses with the irritation of being jostled — curling up against his chest instead — but the Demon doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he yelps out a curse and whirls around, taking a moment to make varyingly harsh noises and sentence fragments behind everyone’s back.

“Only his  _ direct descendants,”  _ he scoffs, turning back on his heel and making everyone flinch. “ _ Only hissss direct descendants!  _ Who the bloody hell told you that? I- for Satan’s sake, I  _ invented _ parseltongue!” He gestures to himself wildly, eyes wide beneath his glasses and movements so quick everyone else is forced to take a step back. “Me! I made it, why is this  _ idiot  _ getting my credit?”

“I- I-”

“It isn’t even an  _ accomplishment!  _ Bloody Gabriel even came up with something, that git is just too stuck up-” He pauses to flip an elaborate, offensive gesture up to the ceiling “-To ever use it.” He devolves into senseless, irritated mumbling, leaving the rest of the group to gawk at him. Harry, the only one with half an inkling of the religious bodies he’s begun to curse, inches forward.

“Erm. Crowley?”

“Huh?” He whips his sunglasses off and blinks in surprise, as if forgetting he’d existed around much at all. He wasn’t one to lash out when interrupted— at least not by children. Perhaps to Aziraphale, but the Angel was a different story entirely. So, he adjusts himself accordingly and nods, teeth gritting together but expression eerily calm. “Oh. Harry. Ngk- wot?”

“I don’t think either of them-“ Harry points vaguely to Ron and Hermione, looking incredibly confused, and perhaps finding the situation a little funny. “-know what you’re talking about. I’m a little confused as well…”

“Err…” starting to recognize just how awkward he sounds, Crowley shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand in dismissal, then turns back to Ron and Hermione specifically. “So, now what you’re telling me is that everyone’s about to think that me and Harry are… heirs of… Slytherin?” 

Crowley was no expert in having his ideas taken. Borrowed, or developed, perhaps. He  _ was  _ temptation, after all — many of man’s bizarre and cruel inventions had been whispered to birth by him and cultivated by humanity— and he took pride in the gig, when he could. Having something he’d created, that had  _ never  _ been taught or written or spoken to him by anyone but those he’d tried to help learn, stolen from him, was a particular insiter of rage. Sensing his desperate search for answers, Hermione shakes her head, mournful. 

“Even though we’re both Gryffindor?” 

“Yes, Harry,” she says. Then, she switches to worried once again, glancing between the two snake-inclined beings before her. “The hat can be… inaccurate, sometimes.”

Crowley shakes his head adamantly. Harry had spoken his concerns to his guardians before. They’d assured him that being a Slytherin would make him no better or worse a person as he was today, just as being a Demon (in Aziraphale’s opinion) made Crowley no more evil than anyone else. Harry, who had begun to tense up, seems to relax at this, sending an appreciative glance at Crowley, who pretends not to notice.

Aziraphale, who had been escorting a group of rather rowdy Ravenclaws back to their respective dorms, finds this moment to return. He lets out a lovely tinkling sort of chuckle at the way Crowley straightens, and walks up the stairs to the dueling platform and their group, smiling. “We would know best of all, dear,” he says, “about mislabeling. It isn’t uncommon when you try to define all of your students to only one group each. And anyways: Slytherin’s are no different from anyone else. Not everyone is as misguided as Mr. Malfoy may appear.”

“Did you  _ know,  _ Angel?” Crowley asks, “Did you know everyone thought that Slytherin bloke came up with parseltongue?”

Aziraphale bristles at this, face turning at the idea of being the one to betray or withhold information from the Demon. “Well I  _ did  _ send you a letter when I found out, dear! It was centuries ago, what  _ were  _ you doing?”

“I was- ngk- I dunno.” Seemingly stopping a loss for words, his mouth twists openly for a moment, hands raised in a half-surrender half-shrug. “Probably  _ napping?  _ I’m always napping, ‘Zira. You know that.”

Clearly trying to conceal a chest full of laughter, Aziraphale shakes his head and rests a hand against his partner’s arm. “I  _ know  _ dear. But anyways- what’s this about Salazar?”

“Parseltongue was…” Hermione, glancing up at Crowley’s borderline distraught expression, rethinks her phrasing and nods to herself. “Well, regardless of who created it, all of Slytherin’s descendants can speak it. It’s  _ very _ rare for anyone outside of his  _ direct lineage  _ to be able to understand or use it.”

“Well, couldn’t someone just  _ learn  _ it? I know that Parselmouth is something you can learn — I did. You always were too dramatic to make your creation exclusive,” he chastises Crowley — who mutters in the quiet that he wasn’t like God, all of his creations would be for everyone, and Aziraphale just sighs, because Crowley had been abandoned and he was entitled to his opinions— before continuing. “I just  _ gave _ myself the ability with owls. You really could have just done that, dear, it would’ve been  _ so  _ many hours of studying saved.”

“I have a flair for the dramatic,” he grumbles in response. “Anyways- now everyone thinks that me and Harry opened the chamber.”

“Which we didn’t,” the boy in front of them reminds the group, gesturing vaguely to himself. Ron and Hermione nod at him as if it’s the only truth in the world, faithful in their friend. “I was in the hospital at the last attack.”

“And  _ I  _ was at the scene,” mutters Crowley in sudden, dawning irritation. He flicks his wrist, bringing his sleeves back down from his elbows and then nodding briefly at Aziraphale. “I should probably go make sure my name is… cleaner.”

He storms away without another thought, shoes echoing their serenade across the halls as he swiftly directs himself to Albus’s office. Aziraphale, sighing at Crowley’s switch-quick movement and style, smiles at the group before him. They look windswept, disgruntled and surprised, their hair all whipped about and eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and desire to act. Their whole display makes him chuckle, and he finds himself growing even fonder of them. 

“Well. You’d better get to class.”

—-

“Harry, what did Professor Crowley mean when he said he… invented Parseltongue?”

Harry, who’s been waiting to get this exact sort of question, gives her a shit eating grin from across the table, setting his pencil down and whispering conspiratorially. “ _ He did.” _ Then, louder, normally: 

“That’s what he meant. Obviously.”

“But…” Ron’s forehead creases in effort, trying to come up with a rational explanation for the situation. Each passing moment, Harry’s grin widens. Whether it was traditional for the Potters, for children, or just for Harry himself to be a bit of a snarky person by nature, was unknown. What  _ was  _ known was that he seemed to take after his father. “Slytherin is…”

“Really, really old?” Hermione suggests. Ron, flicking a hand out, points to her and nods enthusiastically. 

“So’s Crowley. And Aziraphale. 

Beginning to look quite confusedly intrigued, Hermione leans inward, her hair squished between her book and the table as she shoves her body into it. She frowns, focusing, tapping her hand against the table as she tries to sift through her knowledge and come up with an explanation, some loophole or inside joke or double entendre. “How are they that old?” 

“Cause.” Harry gives her a shrug and a side eyed grin. “Crowley’s a Demon. Aziraphale’s an Angel.”

Hermione, scoffing, leans back in her seat, rolls her eyes, and returns to her book. 

—-

Despite his godparent’s best efforts, Harry still worries.

He worries about many things. His godparents were people he could  _ trust,  _ but they were no more all seeing than anyone else. They themselves were perfect examples of how belonging to a group didn’t make you participate in its stereotypes, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that some of the generalizations about the Slytherins had merit. Malfoy was a prime example — snotty, childish, rude, and compensating for obvious uncertainty. The idea that Harry could become him was sickening, but he had to accept the reality. Had his time with his extended family made him like them? Had he inherited their propensity for violence and prejudice? Just because he supposedly looked like his parents didn’t mean he managed to inherit any of their better traits, he tells himself, wondering within himself if he really was someone capable of setting a basilisk on someone else, on a living being. 

As winter moves in, he feels his anxiety shoot into intensity alongside it. Whispers flit about the school like pixies, nasty looks sent at both Harry and his godfather. People stay away from them in hallways, avoiding them and seeming much more wary during herbology. If he had the energy to, Harry would spend every last minute of his days defending his godfather.

But, with no real proof other than his knowledge, Harry feels the hopelessness of being forced to listen to people’s hate. Nasty things become threats, silence becomes shouts as fear turns to anger, suspicion and hatred. It was only a matter of time — Crowley had murmured to Aziraphale one night after they thought Harry had closed the bathroom door already — before Dumbledore gave up on refuting angry parents' opinions and sacked him. 

When Hermione suggests he goes and apologizes to Justin — the boy he’d managed to scare the worst with the snake, a second year hufflepuff who had really been so friendly before everything — he takes her up on the plan. He walks out of the dormitory and down the halls, confidence mingling with the anxiety of rejection or hatred coiled deep inside him. 

He walks past them, at first. Justin’s friends, all circled up conspiratorially at a table in the library, whispering to each other in a conversation that Harry can’t help but take interest in. He slips away before they can see him, tucking himself neatly between the charms section and the hexes, just barely able to hear without being seen. 

"So anyway," says one boy, short and stout in a way that makes him look well cared for. "I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter or Crowley’s marked him down as his next victim, it's best if he keeps a low profile for a while. I dunno how he can keep out of herbology, but he called in sick last time.”

"You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?" Asks a girl, tugging on cornflower ponytails anxiously. She bites her lip, looking at the rest of the group, who all nod. 

"Hannah," says the first boy, rolling his eyes a little, "They’re  _ parselmouths.  _ Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue. And- I’ve heard that Crowley fancies himself a snake animagus. Have you ever wondered why Fell has that snake curled up on him sometimes?”

Another boy nods vigorously, eager to add to the gossip. “I’ve seen it- I think it changes sizes too. I didn’t even know that was  _ possible.  _ I think he’s gotta be a dark wizard to do something like  _ that.” _

The group murmurs their assent at the new information, then the first boy continues, rushing on to more theorization.

"Remember what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter and Crowley are always having run ins and arguments with Filch. I’ve heard Crowley’s gotten students out of detention. Must be out of spite. Next thing we know, Filch's cat's  _ attacked _ . That first year who got messed up? Creevey? He was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was lying in the mud, and Crowley pushed him away. Those two are close.  _ Too close,  _ especially for two parselmouths. Next thing we know - Creevey's been attacked."

"Potter’s always seems so nice, though," reasons another girl uncertainty. “Maybe not Crowley, but Fell seems to like him well enough. And, well, Potter’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can't be all bad, can he?"

The first boy scoffs and leans inward further, speaking in a low whisper so quiet that Harry and the rest of the hufflepuffs have to lean in to hear it at all.

"No one knows  _ how _ he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say-“ he starts hastily, “-he was only a  _ baby _ when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that." Then, as if experiencing an epiphany, he straightens, eyes wide, words racing. "That's probably why You- Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place! Didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other  _ powers _ Potter's been hiding?"

At that final straw, Harry steps out of the bookshelves and clears his throat. If he hadn’t been so angry, the frightened faces of the hufflepuffs — white, aghast at being found out — might’ve worried him. Now, it only adds to his anger.

_ “Hello,”  _ he enunciates thickly. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley."

Somehow, they all manage to go even whiter, despite one of them having dark brown skin in the first place. The first boy to speak gulps as if Harry’s just signed his friend’s death warrant.

"What do you want with him?" 

"I just want to explain what really happened with the snake at the dueling club,” Harry explains, trying to come off as reasonable and not as if he’d just spent the last three minutes getting ready to hex someone. 

The other boy seems to gain his courage, now, biting his lip then letting out a dismissive laugh. "We were all there. We saw what happened."

"Then you saw how it left after me and Crowley dealt with it?”

"All I saw was you and the professor speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin."

“We didn’t chase it anywhere  _ near  _ him!” He says, raising his voice. “It only just looked at him!”

"It was a very near miss. And in case you're getting ideas," Ernie adds hastily, a hint of fear coming back into his voice, followed by pride, "I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood's as pure as anyone's, so-“

"Why would I care what  _ blood  _ you’ve got?” Harry defends fiercely. "Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?"

"I've heard you hate those Muggles you lived with!”

This, ultimately, is where Harry clams up. He straightens, hands going into fists at his side, eyes narrowing. His face goes as stark white as brown skin can shift, his glasses nearly falling off as he lurches forward, making each hufflepuff flinch.

“You should try living with them,” he sneers finally, after a moment of contentious silence. “See how much you like it.”

He turns on his heel, hands unclenching and coming up to push his glasses back up his nose, teeth grit in an agonizingly pointless anger. He can’t  _ do  _ anything. He doesn’t want to hurt them, that’s for sure, but he wants them to know. He wants them to know just how much the Dursley’s deserved his discontent, no matter how guilty that feeling made him feel. 

Stomping across the corridors and relishing in the heavy  _ crash  _ of his shoes against stone, he almost trips over something on the ground in his hurry to get back to the common room and tell Hermione just how badly he’d ruined his chances. He glances down, anger slipping into something more like worry when he sees a robe posed under his foot. 

Looking up, up up, right into a face, Harry catches the wide, petrified eyes of Justin Finch-Fletchley. 

Frozen in a cold, horrified shock, he stares downward, a hand rising up to press against his face. He hopes,  _ begs  _ for it to be a dream, eyes traveling across the boy and to the rest of the hall. Next to him floats an eerie Spector, and Harry turns to see Nearly Headless Nick, head half off and shocked expression just as frozen as Justin’s. 

He stumbles backward toward the wall, trying to escape and shrink away. The thought is broken by the crashing sound of footsteps coming to surround him. On all sides of him, he hears the telltale sounds of classes being released — conversations, laughter — groups of people coming together and all coming directly toward him. Harry finds himself as imoble as the petrified two before him as students round the corner, finding the scene and their idea of a culprit caught together, right in the act. 

For a moment, there’s a perfect quiet, not a single sound dropped. 

“You’re caught, Potter!” Shouts Ernie, the boy from earlier, fists shaking by his side and face white, angry enough to be brave and call out to Harry in the midst of the silence of the room. The rest of the group begins to murmur their assent, spell broken, each of them pressing forward and closing in on their target as Harry tries to avoid all of them at once.

“That will be enough, Macmillan!”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry turns to McGonagall. She glances first to him then the ghost and the boy on the ground, before letting out a heavy sigh and waving professor Flitwick forward to help her.

Justin is carried away with a quick charm, the crowd around them murmuring as he passes through their ranks, arms frozen at his sides and hair pressed against his head as if he still was lying on the ground. 

McGonagall is forced to employ the aid of another student with Nearly Headless Nick, conjuring a large fan and instructing them to lead him upstairs. By the time the crowd has finally begun to thin out — the head students had been adamant in leading them to their dorms as quickly as the teachers instruct — Harry almost feels as if he can breath past the horror once again.

Then, McGonagall calls his name and it all comes crashing back.

“This way, Potter,” she says, harsh and gentle in a way that makes Harry’s stomach sink.

“I- I didn’t do it, Professor,” he tries to explain, waving a hand in front of him. “I only just-“

She only sighs, cutting him off with a shake of her head. “This is out of my hands, now.” 

Harry already knows their destination the moment they start to walk. The familiar pair of gargoyle’s outside Dumblebore’s office is enough to confirm his suspicions. He’s about to be expelled. Crowley had been more wrong about him being sacked than anything — Harry would be the one forced out of the school. He’d be sent away, perhaps even with his wand snapped or a jail sentence. Aziraphale and Crowley would always defend his innocence. He  _ knew that —  _ but would anyone ever believe them, when he’d already been caught, twice, at the scene?

“Lemon drop!” McGonagall recites dutifully. The same, spiraling staircase as before whirls to life, addressing the two before it with cold indifference, a cold pool of dread settling in Harry’s chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways it’s about 3 am and I just finished editing this so if you see any mistakes (or just wanna be nice) comments would be SUPER appreciated!


	6. The Diary and Fudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo,, thought I’d release this chapter early since it’s so much more plot relevant than the last! It’s MUCH longer than the other, and I think it’s much better written than the other too. I hope. Lol.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Harry enters the office, he finds it almost exactly the same as it had been at the beginning of the year. 

The paintings contain the same dozing headmasters, the bookshelves stuttering with the weight of a thousand pages and centuries of knowledge. He drifts upward toward the desk at the edge of the room, caught in a trance of near-dissociative worry, feet fluttering up floorboards and stair steps. 

“Bee in your bonnet, Potter?”

He looks up, eyes catching on the strangely familiar voice, imprinted in his mind since that first time he’d stepped into Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat folds into itself as it speaks, patched and warped mouth pursing together as it waits for his answer.

“Er- yes,” he admits quietly. “Sorry to bother you. I wanted to ask-“

“You’ve been wondering,” interrupts the hat, a bit haughty, “Whether I put you in the right house. Yes, you were difficult to place. Just like those odd guardians of yours. But, I stand by what I said before. You would’ve done well in Slytherin.”

His heart falls from his chest with a sickening thud. He turns from the hat, displaying his back and scowling about the office.

“You’re wrong,” he says, still stubbornly ignoring the bat, no matter how still it has fallen. Then, a strange, choked gagging noise comes from behind him, echoing across the room.

In the noise’s place stands a  _ bird _ . It’s bowed over its own perch, wings drooping and heavy golden feathers beginning to slough off of its body. Something about it seems familiar — his wand itches to come up and into the air, now that he’s stepped into the bird’s presence — but he hushes the urge to step forward, subconsciously telling himself it’s all but a figment of his imagination. In reality, his godparents have sufficiently drilled the idea of  _ trusting your instincts  _ into his mind, reminding him that if a wizard as powerful as him began thinking things out of nowhere then they’d ought to trust it unless it were to get them hurt. Mind shifting back to the miserable cluster of feathers before him, Harry watches as the bird gives him a pitifully broken whimper, droops into a folded position, and bursts into flames.

Harry shouts in shock, backing away and trying desperately to think of the sort of water charm Hermione would be able to use, hands on his wand and shaking quite horribly, wondering if  _ this  _ was what his brain had been trying to warn him about. The bird lets out a high, painful sounding shriek then falls to the bottom of the perch, a pile of sullen ash. 

Unfortunately— things didn’t seem to go right for a single Potter, Crowley or Fell when Fire was involved — the door happens to open the moment the bird finally goes dark. 

“Professor,” Harry splutters out in abject horror, waving his hands in front of him and discarding his wand, trying to appear less guilty of the crime. “I- your bird, I didn’t do it, it just-“

Strangely, Dumbledore only smiles. Harry stops short as the elderly wizard raises a placating hand, walking silently to the pile of ashes that had once been a bird and letting out a very brief, albeit pleasant, chuckle. 

“Fawkes, Harry,” he begins, “is a phoenix.” He gives the boy another reassuring smile, then gestures to the pile-that-has-once-been-bird. “Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes.” Then, he blinks, and the ashes begin to shift away from a slowly rising form. “Watch him…”

Harry looks back to the perch and starts. There in place of what he’d been sure he’d accidentally been pinned as the killer of- is a tiny, newborn, wrinkled bird's head, popping right out of the ash. Mimicking the same cries it had made in its elderly form — but far less weak now — it squeaks, looking pitifully up at him. 

"It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day," Dumbledore says mournfully. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers…” he reaches out a hand and runs a gentle knuckle under the bird’s beak, smiling at the happy chirp it gives him, “And, they make highly faithful friends.” 

Then, Dumbledore is fixing him with a piercingly blue stare. It’s not cruel nor angry, but Harry feels all of his dread resurfacing the moment their eyes meet. 

It’s not that he didn’t trust Dumbledore. He didn’t like how he’d very nearly forced Harry to go back to the Dursley’s — or that he’d placed him there in the first place — but the headmaster was solid, polite, and typically quite blunt when needed. Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t seem to like him much, but the headmaster appeared to trust them with Harry’s wellbeing, and so he trusted the man in return. Whether he trusts Dumbledore or  _ not  _ doesn’t matter in the slightest for the sort of I’m-sorry-sir-I-didn’t-kill-anyone situation he’s found himself in. 

Though, before either can say a single word, the door comes bursting open, a mass of half-giant form and messy, tousled hair, a rooster thrown over Hagrid’s shoulder as he shouts.

"It wasn'Harry, Professor Dumbledore!" He shouts, panicked, frantic, and the way he sounds so painfully protective makes Harry want to  _ cry _ . Dumbledore tries to speak, but Hagrid continues again, shouting twice more his protest. Harry can’t help but feel grateful for his faith and intervention.

"It couldn’t’ve been him, I'll swear it in front o'the Ministry o'Magic if I have to!”

"Hagrid, I-“

"-you’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never-"

"Hagrid!" 

The man falls silent, snapping his mouth shut as Dumbledore stands, a pacifying expression affixed beneath his shimmering spectacles. "I do not think that Harry attacked those people."

"Oh," Hagrid says awkwardly, the rooster on his shoulder falling flat as he breathes a sigh of relief. "Right. I'll wait outside then, Headmaster." He stomps out, looking a bit embarrassed. Harry makes a note to thank him later. 

“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry asks hopefully, calming the thrumming of his chest. 

“No, Harry.” Dumbledore shakes his head and sits back down, giving the air a deep, unanswered sigh as Harry fidgets, awaiting an answer. “I don’t think you did. But I still want to talk to you.”

Harry waits for a moment, nervous, watching as Dumbledore laces his long fingers together and considers him. When he speaks again, his voice has grown even softer somehow, in a way that makes Harry want to feel frustrated with him. 

“I must ask, Harry, whether you have anything you would like to tell me or your guardians.”

The question throws him off his script, for a moment. 

(He thinks of polyjuice potion. He thinks of Malfoy, shouting angrily at both Harry and his own house-elf. He thinks of Crowley and Aziraphale, giving him worried looks when they assume he isn’t looking. He thinks of the Parseltongue he knows, so instinctively, and the way that no one other than a few select people want to speak to him at all any longer. )

“No,” he says, firm and confident. He’s unsure what the headmaster’s true reason for the question was regardless— did he really care, or was he only using Harry’s godparents as leverage to wrestle out an answer from the boy?— and reacts accordingly, shaking his head. “There’s nothing, Professor.”

Dumbledore nods, unlacing his fingers to push his glasses up against his nose and give him a brief smile. “Very well.”

Harry nods. Finally letting out a breath — the type that sits in the back of your lungs, creeping up from your stomach with stone and steel-toed boot gripping against your skin, waiting to be released and anxiously asking you to hurry up — he crosses to the door. His fingers are hovering just above the doorknob when he stops, paused by the shifting of a fabric and a small request from Dumbledore to wait. 

When he turns, the Professor seems to have deflated some, worrying at the edge of his glasses and giving Harry one last gentle nod.

“I was wrong, you know,” he says, quieter than Harry has ever heard him, a sort of reflex to frown inching up his spine. “I think you’d be better off staying with your godparents, now.”

—-

Over the rest of the winter, the nervousness of the students turns into a complete, aggressive panic. Nearly Headless Nick’s untimely second-fate had turned out to be the last straw — if the basilisk could freeze a  _ ghost,  _ what else was it capable of? — and people begin to book every single seat they can find on the Hogwarts express, back home for the winter and as far away from Harry and Crowley as they can muster. 

“At this rate,” Ron had grumbled during a nearly deserted dinner, seats emptied and snow silent from the ceiling, “we’ll be the only ones left. Us, Crabbe and Goyle, and  _ Malfoy.”  _

The two over-glorified bodyguards, just as their friend — who seemed to always have an excuse for not going home over Christmas, Dean snarled it was to work for you-know-who — made the decision to remain at Hogwarts over the holidays as they always did. Crowley and Aziraphale wanted to bring Harry home to celebrate this year, but with Crowley being the only one able to communicate to the basilisk, he was forced to stay.

Fred and George took the presence of the newly dubbed “Heir of Slytherin” in stride, pronouncing Harry’s presence and attempting to ward him off with garlic whenever he glared at them. He really did appreciate it, no matter how hard he sneered at them. At least they were making the idea of him being the Heir as ludicrous as Harry knew it to be. The whole facade did seem to irritate Malfoy, strangely enough. Every time he saw the antics he’d grumble and moan, acting as if it physically pained him to watch.

Still, Christmas comes and begins with a bang. It’s quite a bit smaller than the ordinary celebration — Kwanzaa and Hanukkah even more so — but the Christmas Eve feast has Harry bringing in a smile either way. It’s a dark, softly-lit night with a vague aura of comfort to the way that each table groups together and murmurs, finding happiness in each other’s presence and comfort in the way that even a basilisk can’t break the bonds of a warm hearth and a few good crackers. 

On Christmas Day, though, Harry is woken up to something a bit more startling. 

A large bang echoes about the boy’s dormitory, sending Ron and Harry shooting right up in their beds with twin shouts of fear, panic, and in Ron’s case, the aftereffects of a dream about spiders. 

“Wake up!” Shouts Hermione bossily, reminding Harry quite a bit of Pepper, and tossing a parcel onto each of their beds. She leaps onto Ron's bedsheets, with a fit of crowing laughter, Harry following the moment Ron lets out his third yelp of the morning. 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,  _ ‘Mione,”  _ he groans, slumping back into his bed as Harry finally quells his laughter. 

“Merry Christmas to you Ronald,” she says daintily, sending Harry into another fit of laughter and punching his shoulder for it. “I’ve been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewing to the potion. It’s ready.”

This gives both of the boys a pause, laughter and groans fading to a curious sort of confused excitement. They glance at her, then to each other, and raise their eyebrows in the sort of way that might’ve suggested that once, in a past life, they’d been siblings. 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says with a nod, shifting to keep Scabbers from being squashed under the gift Ron finally tosses at her. “If we’re doing it, we should do it tonight.”

At that moment, the dormitory doors open again, revealing Aziraphale and Crowley, the latter looking much more grumpy at being forced awake than the former, with an angelic smile and a halo of silver curls. They’re both dressed in clothes as identical to any other day, and carrying about four presents each. Of course, the Demon is nearly stumbling over with the effort he’s exerting to carry too many presents of a large size. Gathering his already staggering footsteps, he grins. 

“What are you three doing?” Asks Aziraphale, voice cheery despite the very complicated answer to his question. “Merry Christmas, anyways.” He walks further and starts distributing gifts, laughing at Crowley’s annoyed grumbling when the Demon accidentally drops one. 

“It’s nothing,” Harry responds quickly, reaching into his own drawer to pick up a gift for them each.

Then, there’s a bit of a couch from the corner.

Each head whips about — no one  _ else  _ has stayed for winter in the pool of Gryffindor students, Aziraphale and Crowley had checked the lists themselves to make sure they’d both be allowed to speak freely while visiting the children they so adored — and tracks the creation of the across the room, three beds down where a bundle of frightened-looking Neville pops up from beneath his blankets.

“Er- Sorry!” He says hastily, waving a hand and sitting up. His brow furrows. “Professors?”

“Neville? What’re you still doing here?” Asks Ron, fully awake now and frowning at the boy, not out of malice and bordering on concern. 

“Oh.” The boy in question frowns to himself as if he’d quite forgotten  _ why  _ he was there. Then, his face falls more into a mimicry of sadness, and he slumps, letting out a chuckle that’s unable to fool anyone. “M’ Gran said I shouldn’t come home till I bring my marks up.” He shrugs nonchalantly, not noticing the way that everyone else has begun to listen attentively with a bit more than just  _ nonchalance.  _ “I’ll just see her in summer.”

“Are you- are you just celebrating alone?” Stammers Aziraphale, looking quite uncomfortable at the gifts he’d been presenting to the children in front of him and the clear lack of any given to Neville.

“Wouldn’t be the first time!” Pipes the boy, before laughing. “M’ uncle Thomas once kicked me out in the snow since I hadn’t shown a sign of being a wizard yet.”

Crowley, starting to look a bit sharper, serpentine and violent, slowly sets the rest of the well-wrapped gifts he’d been holding onto each of their owner’s beds. Then, coming up and out of his pocket — out of  _ somewhere,  _ not his pocket, something somewhere and nowhere but it was there now — is a small box, wrapped to the nines and topped with a tartan bow hastily added by Azirpahale as the Angel realizes his partner’s plan.

“Then come an’ sit with us,” he says, shoving the gift into Neville’s hands as if it fits them, ignoring the amazed, starstruck look the toothy, overgrown foal of a boy gives him. “Az-  _ Fell’s  _ brought too much fudge for the lot of us anyways.”

—-

The rest of Christmas is just as nice as the beginning, when it’s rather enlightening start has been pushed away and discarded. Harry gets quite a few nice gifts. A large amount of treacle tart from Hagrid, which softens nicely by the fire. A book with interesting facts about his favorite quidditch teams from Ron, and a beautiful, shimmering eagle feather quill from Hermione. Crowley gives him a small, decorative pocket knife that looks as ancient as anything, and which he refuses to explain the origins of. It’s carved with a few tree branches and one, hyper-realistic apple. Aziraphale gives him a large, tartan throw blanket and a notebook bewitched (or made) to conceal all of the words to everyone but Harry himself. Mrs. Weasley sends him sweets and a sweater, and the gift-giving closes with him sharing a rather large plum cake with the group. 

Neville, unable to give any of them gifts, suddenly finds himself the owner of too-many sweets, a promise from Ron (wrinkling his nose) that he’ll get Mrs. Weasley to make him a sweater, and a minuscule blessing from Aziraphale.

(Neville’s family, on the other hand — save for his parents, Crowley sucks in a breath like a punch when seeing what’s been done to them — goes to bed and wakes up in horrified, shrieking tears, their screams the delicious sort of breed that Hastur would’ve frothed at the mouth to devour.)

Ron, Hermione, and Harry seem to adopt Neville into their group the moment they realize just how alone he was. They sit together at the feast of the day and eat, the excited way Neville glances about at the ground not lost on them. They tug him about for an aggressive snowball fight at Hagrid’s — who takes the addition to the group in stride — and somehow manage to acclimate him to Fang’s slobbering adoration in a matter of minutes.

(Crowley’d tried to avoid any though of white wings or golden, shining mechanisms for years. Now, with a child of his own and a separation from Heaven and Hell he never could’ve dreamed of, he wants nothing more than to summon a Caduceus of twisting snake and bring Neville’s parents back to the boy.)

(The signature of the retrieval itself, Aziraphale reminds him, would be as loud as a syllable of God’s rambling itself. They compromise, deciding to have words with Minerva about  _ student welfare  _ and  _ inappropriate treatment of students.) _

Still, he’s been amongst the group for too little time. At the end of the final feast of the day, Hermione drags Ron and Harry away early, saying loudly that her stomach hurts and she wants them to help her find the potion she’d been given to help with it. 

Fifteen minutes later, Ron and Harry find themselves dragging Crab and Goyle’s passed-out forms into a closet and following their friend into the girl's restroom, flooded once again.

“Hermione?”

The girl whips around, abandoning her pot of potion and smiling, breathless and looking a bit mad with power. She’s shining with sweat and wonder, skin flushed dark with excitement. “You’ve got it?”

They show the hairs, and she nods.

“Good. I snuck these Slytherin robes out of the laundry when your godparents weren’t paying attention,” she says, holding up a sack half-wet with toilet water. At Ron’s expression of distaste, she rolls her eyes. “It’s  _ waterproof,  _ you idiot.” 

That particular center of irritation diminished, they stare into the potion together. It bubbles and boils, threatening to spill over the lip of its confines in a way that has Harry wondering if there might be some merit to its atoms having some sort of sentience like his Godparents supposed. 

“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” Hermione blurts nervously, nodding at Ron when he pats her shoulder awkwardly. “It looks like the book says it should… and we have an hour after we’ve taken it for it to work.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Hermione,” Harry attempts to reassure her. “Today was too weird for it not to work.”

The unspoken idea that they all wanted to say something no more vaguely rude than murder to Neville’s grandmother didn’t go unnoticed.

This seems to reassure her. Hands trembling, she empties Millicent Bulstrode’s hair into her potion, the glass making a little  _ clank  _ as it hits her cup. Harry nods at her and pours his own cup, dropping the coarse Goyle-hair into the bubbling mixture and letting out an audible noise of hatred. Ron follows suit, muttering a curse that would make Mrs. Weasley shout. 

“Right then,” Hermione says, a grimace swirling across her face and a hair falling out of her ponytail as if to beg her to wait, She sighs, smiles, and downs the potion in a single gulp. Harry and Ron follow instantly, letting out twin gasps of disgust as it rips down their throats. 

“Oh,” Ron says faintly, before rushing off to a stall and making loud gagging noises.

“I think- I think I’m going to be sick,” Hermione says, warbling, before racing off to throw herself into another stall, making noises of the “yes I’m vomiting here” sort, sounding quite unpleasant. 

Harry watches as they go, then gasps, feeling the pain hit his chest, doubling over and gripping the edge of the sink. Before he can think anything more, a ripping, tearing feeling runs through his insides, hot and cold pushing and pulling against his skin as the potion starts it’s work. The sensation of bones being stretched, skin being molded, and blood being stopped brings him to his knees, choked and pained noises following the clatter of knees-against-stone. In his reflection in the water below him, he watches in mute horror as his skin melts away like hot candle wax. 

Then, as soon as it begins, the feeling dies away.

His clothes have shrunk to ten sizes too small, his shoulders nearly tearing the fabric. His shoes bulge and warp, and he’s quick to reach down and untie them as the pain grows. Hands trembling, he tugs his original robes off, grateful that he’d worn a large sweater beneath it all. He reaches a hand up and shoves his glasses away, finding that for once, his body is better without them. Clearing his throat, he looks up at the still-closed stall doors.

“You two alright?” He asks, voice a harsh, sandpapery rasp of a thing. He coughs against it, frowning at the readjustment. 

“Yeah,” comes Crabbe’s aggressive grunt, Ron walking forth from the stall he’d been in on unsure, painful-looking steps. They look at each other, pale with shock, reaching up to cup their own faces and finding that the structure has changed completely. “This is unbelievable,” he whispers, staring into the mirror. “Unbelievable.”

Shoving down his discomfort, Harry shakes his head and walks forward to the edge of the bathroom. “We’d better get going, then.”

Ron nods, crossing over to the stalls once more and banging on Hermione’s door, glaring at the wood. “Hermione, you in there?”

“I’m- I'm not going!”

Her voice — strangely high pitched with something akin to fear — comes through the door without her. 

“Hermione,” Harry says, sighing, “We know Millicent isn’t pretty, but-“

“No- really! I don’t think I’ll come with- go on without me!”

Harry and Ron look at each other, bewildered. Suddenly, Crabbe’s body snaps it’s thick, meaty fingers, a bright look on his face that would t have been seen any other day. 

“That’s more like Goyle, then,” Ron says with surety. Harry gives him a confused look, and he grins. “That’s how he looks every time someone asks him a question.”

Ignoring him, Harry turns back to the door. “Hermione, are you alright?” 

_ “Fine.  _ I’m fine, just go.”

After a moment of silent worry, Ron and Harry leave. Five minutes have passed already — five minutes of precious time that they can’t afford to waste. They wander through the halls, blundering about in their misshapen bodies — Harry looking at his pale skin and thick forehead, wrinkling his nose, Ron looking at the way that his hands are wrinkled with callouses and mourning the loss of normal-sized fingers — waiting to find any sign of someone to bring them to the Slytherin common room.

“Excuse me?”

They whirl around, on heavy-footed heels, finding themselves faced with Aziraphale, frowning at them and walking closer with hands clasped before them. Suffocating a greeting, Harry steps forward. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Uh-“ Ron looks at Harry, mouth gaping open in surprise, and nudges him in the arm aggressively. 

“We’re- uh- we got lost,” he says dumbly, hoping that Azirpahale won’t recognize the way he moves, stammers and fidgets. It’s a lost cause, really. Harry’d never been one for acting. “Lost, yeah.”

Gracing them a bit of an undeserved half-smile, Aziraphale nods. “Well, do you need help finding your common room?”

“There you are!”

The new voice is high pitched, childish and irritated, accompanied by the noise of a scoff and the smoothing back of overdone hair. Malfoy comes running up, striding confidently down the hall. He looks at Crabbe, Goyle, and Aziraphale and scoffs, raising an eyebrow in confusion at the way they’ve all stood themselves about in a circle of awkward lies. “What’re you doing here?” He asks, looking at who he thinks are his not-friends. 

“We- looking for you,” Ron explains hastily. “Uh- yeah.”

“They’ve gotten lost, Mr. Malfoy,” Aziraphale says with a nod and an apologetic smile. “If you’d lead them to their house again…?”

The boy in question sneers, but nods, snagging bundles of Ron and Harry’s sleeves in his hands. “Fine. Come on, you great oafs.”

Harry only turns once more — shooting a brief glance into Aziraphale retreating back — and blinks, as the Angel walks from the corridor and away, not sparing any of them another passing glance. 

“Him and that  _ Crowley  _ have been sneaking around a lot,” Malfoy says abruptly, prompting Ron and Harry to snap to attention with comical gasps. “I reckon they think they’ll catch the heir red-handed.”

“You-“ Ron spares a glance to Harry, who glares, then looks away once again. “You don’t think it’s H- Potter? Or the professor?”

Malfoy turns, shooting him a look of angry confusion as if it’s the most stupid thing he’s ever heard.  _ “Obviously not.”  _

He steps up to a slab of empty, damp dungeon wall, stones swimming with an almost mirage-like sheen of light from the fires behind him. Malfoy narrows his eyes — and he looks almost normal, here, with a furrow in his brow that looks more childish than angry — and whispers something quiet, sounding incredibly close to a modified version of Parseltongue. The wall parts, elaborate stones flooding away as swiftly as water. Malfoy marches through the hole, Ron and Harry following him within.

The common room, while different from Gryffindor’s, doesn’t seem to be as evil and unpleasant as Harry had expected. It’s a long, high-ceilinged room, with a fire crackling in a large fireplace and light green lighting flooding the room from lamps settled across the room. The room is empty save for a number of elaborately carved wooden seats, great green cushions pushed into their depths, and looking quite cozy. Surprisingly enough, there’s a sort of familiar feeling to the room. The serpentine decor, the minimalist style of the furniture. It all reminds Harry vaguely of a lime green version of Crowley. 

“You know- I’m surprised the daily prophet hadn’t reported on these attacks yet,” Malfoy says, flopping into a seat and grinning lazily at them. “Who wants to bet Dumbledore’s keeping it covered up? He'll be sacked if it doesn't stop soon. Father's always said old Dumbledore's the worst thing that's ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never have let slime like… well, you  _ know _ , in.”

After a few awkward seconds, Harry lets out a weak,  _ incredibly  _ unconvincing laugh. It starts as a cough and rolls into a groan and then stumbles its way into uncheery giggling, as if it would rather stagger into a door than the room. Malfoy frowns at him, fiddling with the edges of his robe.

“What’s the matter with you two? Eat too much?”

Ron nods, grunting out something that sounds halfway between a curse and “ _ stomachache _ .” 

“Ah. Well. I wish I knew who the heir was, anyways-“

“Wait-“ Harry leans in, “you don’t know who it is?” 

Malfoy, with a suspicious look and an exasperated glare, splutters. “Of  _ course not.  _ You know I haven’t got an idea who it is, I’ve told you that.” He relaxes as Ron and Harry do. “And  _ anyway, _ father won't tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it'll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing - last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So it’s only a matter of time till another one is killed.” 

He lets out an ungraceful snort. “Wanna throw some galleons into the pot? My bets on in a week.”

Throughout the conversation, Ron’s hackles had risen to the ceiling. Clenching Goyle’s fists in anger, he’s only quelled by a warning look from Harry. Then, grunting: “D’you know if the person who opened it got caught?”

“Oh, yeah.” Malfoy waves a dismissive hand. “I dunno what happened to him. Wasn’t enough proof, I think. The dumb ape didn’t even keep his tracks covered. Anyways. The ministry raided my house last week- what in the-“

“Medicine,” Ron snaps, shooting Harry a panicked look. All of a sudden, Harry finds that his shirt has begun to feel just a bit smaller than it should. “For my stomach.”

Harry, finally catching up to his body and feeling a shooting pain in his forehead, lurches upward. “Now!”

They leap up and away, sprinting across the rest of the common room as Malfoy shouts his protest. With each step they feel themselves changing, legs shrinking and eyes going foggy. They nearly fall over by the time they make it back to the bathroom — Ron’s lost his shoes, and Harry has to hike his robes up to keep from tripping over them. 

“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron reasons breathlessly, back in his own lanky, freckled body with robes that draped over him like a starved man’s. He shoves through the bathroom door and gulps in a deep breath of fresh sewage-air. “We know he isn’t the one behind the attacks now, for sure.” He walks over to Hermione’s stall and bangs on the door as Harry returns his glasses to his face, checking to make sure his body has returned to normal.

“Go away!” Hermione says, voice much higher than usual, even higher than it had been before.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asks, eyes darting back to Harry with concern on his face. He shrugs. “You must’ve turned back by now, mustn’t you?”

There’s a sudden, choked sob from the girl within the stall, and the lock clicks open from the inside. Hermione pushes open the door and steps forward.

Her face is half covered in dark black fur, her eyes a misty shade of green and slit like a cat’s. Twin ears twitch and flatten against her head, an almost-muzzle downturned into an oddly human frown. Ron backs up and hits the sink, choking down a surprised gasp as Harry’s mouth jerks open. 

“It was  _ cat hair!”  _ She wails miserably. "M-Millicent Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn't supposed to be used for animal transformations!"

“It’s ok, Hermione,” Harry reassures quickly, “come on, let’s get you to the hospital wing.”

—-

For the next week, Hermione remains solidly miserable with Madam Pomfrey. With a half-miracle and a concoction of plants that  _ really  _ shouldn’t exist anymore, Crowley is able to help the woman bring Hermione back to her normal, human form once again. This doesn’t dissuade the gossipers come the end of break, of course. For the first few days of their return, people only wonder if she’d been attacked as well, and whispers increase tenfold.

The three of them start to march about the castle in search of new leads with an invisibility cloak on and a Demon and Angel to pretend not to see them, wandering around and listening in to whatever snippets of information they can glean from conversation. 

On one such excursion is when they find the book.

Their feet echo through muddy puddles of brackish water, dark and slick with sewage. The hall smells like raw, spoiled fish and something horribly rotten, but they press onward, following the trail and finding themselves standing outside Myrtle’s bathroom. Inside, all they can hear is terrible, miserable,  _ moans. _

“Ohh…” the ghost whimpers pitifully as they enter, floating around and trailing a hand into the water below her, long black hair floating around behind her eerily. She looks a mix of frightening and despondent- and turns to them with a choked sob. “Come to throw something  _ else  _ at me?”

Wading across the watery floor, Harry frowns. “Why would we throw something at you?”

“Don’t ask  _ me!”  _ She shouts, suddenly angry, lurching out of her slouching position and launching herself at them. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me..."

“Well…” Ron twists his hands together and smiles sheepishly. “It can’t… hurt you, can it? I mean, it’d just go right through you, wouldn’t it?” 

Clearly, this is the wrong thing to say. Myrtle lets out an indignant, ear-splitting shriek and dashes closer, coming to rest an inch from Ron’s purpling face. “Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach!” She shouts, punctuating her words with a hand through Ron’s gut. “Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!"

“Er- Myrtle, who threw it at you?” Hermione tries, coaxing her back from Ron with an apologetic smile. She seems to calm a little, reverting back to her depressed, lip-bitten state. 

"I don't know…” She points up to the window above her, light streaming through in the evening calm. “I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about  _ death _ , and it fell  _ right through the top of my head,"  _ she tells them, voice rising to a whistling, wet pitch by the end of her sentence. She gestures to another stall. "It's over there, it got washed out..."

Harry looks over to the book. It floats just below the water, bobbing up and down, its shabby black leather shining with wetness. He picks it up, scanning the inside and the name inscribed within.

“Hang on… Tom Riddle.” Ron, walking forward and splashing about, frowns. “I know him. He got a special medal for something like fifty years ago. Filch made me polish it.” He grimaces. “He made me redo it for an hour.” 

He peels the papers apart and finds them empty, nothing but a few stains and the squelching noise of wet parchment. Grimacing, he flashes it to Ron and Hermione. “He never wrote in it.”

“He must’ve been a muggle-born, though,” Hermione says thoughtfully, pointing to the little  _ Vauxhall Road  _ label on its front. “It’s a muggle store,” she explains to Ron and Myrtle.

Harry, pockets it. 

That night he finds himself in darkness, alone save for the sounds of snoring about him. Sitting at his desk, he pulls out a quill and opens the pages of the empty notebook, looking for a single indication of use. It's as empty as it had been. That hasn’t changed — in fact, it’s still a little damp. Hermione had told him to try writing in it regardless, just to see if it was bewitched in any way. So, he pulls out a pot of ink and starts to write.

At first, nothing happens. The single spot of ink he drips onto the page disappears, the first sign of anything magical about the thing. Encouraged, he dips his quill against the parchment and scrawls the first beginnings of a note. 

_ My name is Harry Potter,  _ he writes, watching as the letters fade away behind his quick fingers. Holding his breath, he waits, watching for something to happen.

In the same shade and quality of ink as Harry’s, words start to crawl right back up onto the paper. 

_ Hello, Harry Potter,  _ says the book with unfamiliar handwriting.  _ My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my journal?  _

Those words fade away as well, right as soon as Harry starts to write again as if they’d only been a trick of the imagination. 

_ Someone tried to throw it in a toilet.  _ He lets out a breathy, excited chuckle as the words continue. 

_ Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read. _

Harry frowns, scribbling out his response quickly.  _ What do you mean?  _

_ I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

Even more excited now, Harry leans over and continues even faster. 

_ That's where I am now. I’m at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff's been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets? _

The next response comes faster, hurried, as if the writer is frantic to get the words out and on paper. Harry reads it as quickly as he can.

_ Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist.  _

A pause.

_ But this was a lie.  _

_ In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth.  _

_ A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident.  _

Another pause, as if he was getting even more heated.

_ They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned. _

By the end, the tone has turned sour. Harry almost knocks his ink well over in his hurry to write back.

_ It's happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who's behind them. Who was it last time? _

_ I can show you if you’d like,  _ comes the urgent reply. Harry takes in a harsh breath.  _ You don't have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him. _

Harry finally hesitates at this. He  _ knows  _ that it sounds suspicious. Still, he glances around the dormitory with worried eyes, checking to reassure himself that no one else is left awake. When he darts his eyes back to the page, more words have appeared. 

_ Let me show you. _

Harry looks at the offer, then picks up his quill.

_ Ok. _

Suddenly, the pages begin to turn, as if rushing through a harsh wind. They flip faster and faster past Harry’s wide-eyed gaze, rippling with a bright, golden light. The dates in the corner whip past him, whipping forward before finally, jerking to a halt. The moment it stops, Harry is falling, 

falling, 

_ gone. _

Abruptly, his feet hit solid ground. No longer being hurled across space, he stands shakily, taking in the blurry shapes of people and memory forming around him. It looks a bit as if he’s lost his glasses for a moment, before the world reforms and he can finally look around with unclouded eyes once again. 

Across from him stands a boy. He’s handsome, with black, silky hair, wavy with natural effort. His jaw tenses as he watches a scene across from him, arms crossed and eyes uncaring in the sort of way that suggests he’s being as casual as he can. On the stairs below him stand a crowd of spectators, carrying a stretcher. The moment the white fabric comes into view, Harry jolts to attention, watching as a limp hand bounces off the side as the body is carried away. Down the stairs, the procession goes, abandoning the scene and leaving Tom in silence. 

Suddenly, Tom turns around. A thin hand sits against his shoulder, trailing upward into an arm, then the form of a man with a long, silvery beard and bright blue eyes, hidden behind the glass of his spectacles. 

“What are you doing here, wandering around so late, Tom?” 

With a jolt, Harry matches the voice with the face. It’s Dumbledore- he can see it now, the glint in his bright blue eyes and the crook of smile lines across his cheeks, frowning lightly as if Tom was a problematic cat, sitting on his parchment. 

“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” Tom says dutifully, folding his hands behind his back and stepping backward off the stairs and out of the professor’s grip. 

“Well, hurry off to bed,” Dumbledore says, giving Tom the sort of piercing, severe look that Harry knew the headmaster reserved for students that might’ve been caught troublemaking. “Best not to roam the halls these days. Not with…”

He sighs, cutting himself off and sending Riddle away with a thoughtful half-smile. The boy watches the professor drift off, before turning and walking quickly toward the stone steps down to the dungeons, Harry hot on his heels.

Strangely, he doesn’t do anything that Harry might’ve expected. There’s no hidden tunnel, no secret passage with a strange password to open a hidden wall. They don’t even go to Slytherin common room, either, though the green on the elder boy’s robes seemed to suggest he belonged there. Instead, Harry finds himself following Tom down to the very dungeon room that Snape used to teach potions in the present, devoid of the light— albeit bare— that usually remains in the room. Riddle pushes open the door and steps inside, only giving Harry just a moment to step in behind him before the wooden frame slips shut. 

There, standing in the back of the room is a hulking figure. They’re bowed over an empty box, arms cradled protectively about some concealed movement between them. Recognizing the tone of the mumbling pouring out from the student, Harry realizes that it’s  _ Hagrid. _

"C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here... C'mon now... in the box..."

Taking up the initiative, Riddle strides forward, standing imposingly behind Hagrid and quirking his lips up into an apologetic smile, slowly raising his arm. 

“Good evening, Rubeus.”

Hagrid slams the lid of the box down, whirling around and pointing his un-snapped wand at Riddle, eyes wide. He looks completely different. Younger, incredibly so, without a beard or anything yet. 

“What're you doing down here, Riddle?” He asks, voice wavering. He backs up a step as Riddle steps forward and advances. 

"It's all over," he says, a soft, menacing threat concealed beneath his words. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus,” he continues, sounding manipulatively apologetic. “They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"I didn’t-“

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone.” He reassures, almost saddened. “But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and--"

"Aragog never killed no one!" Hagrid says angrily, running a hand protectively over the box and looking wistfully at it. It looks as if he already knows he’s lost — but this doesn’t dissuade him from standing there and protecting his pet either way. 

"Come on, Rubeus.” Tom continues moving forward again, a cruelly pleading hint to his voice. "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered.”

"It wasn't him!" Hagrid roars, quickly beginning to panic. "He wouldn'! He never!"

"Stand  _ aside _ ," Tom insists. Then, he flicks his wand.

The room goes lit with a violent light, bright and dazzling in a way that has Harry flinching backward. Hagrid lets out a choked noise and steps away, jostling the side of the chest. Whatever it is inside goes flying out in an instant, startling Harry so badly he lets out a shout.

A huge, black-furred and low formed beast comes rising out, eight legs scuttering against the ground and eight eyes blinking, gleaming, slipping open and shut as it dashes away — Riddle raises his wand, casting a jet of silent green light, but it’s too late. The monstrous, frantic thing shoves him to the ground, it’s gigantic mass sending Harry careening away in an effort to stop from being touched by its great, hairy, bulbous abdomen. Riddle makes an effort to stand and launch another spell, but Hagrid tackles him, bowing him over with a shout of pure, unadulterated rage. 

Then, Harry is falling, falling, falling-

And he’s back, sitting in his seat with wide eyes and hands shaking so badly his inkwell spills against the table, the book absorbing all that touches it and magicing it away again, all as if it’d only been a dream. 

“Harry?” Ron says, sitting up in his bed and casting him a concerned glance. “What’s wrong, mate?”

“They knew,” Harry gasps, chest heaving. “They knew he didn’t do it.” 

—-

The moment that Harry, Hermione, and Ron, all in their pajamas, go bursting into Hagrid’s hut, it’s clear to the man that something is very, very wrong.

“They knew!” Hermione, spitting mad, kicks at the ground in anger like it’s the staff of Hogwarts itself “They knew you didn’t do it the moment-“

“The moment Crowley found out it was a basilisk!” Ron, more excited than angry, gestures at Hagrid’s bright pink umbrella. “They found out it wasn’t you and they didn’t even give your wand back?”

“What’re yeh-“

“Hagrid, you- they thought  _ you  _ opened the Chamber,” Harry says, throwing the rest of his cloak off and dashing it against the wood flooring. “And when they found out they didn’t even clear your  _ name?” _

“I-“ Hagrid frowns, bustling himself forward and looking a little angry, now. “Of course I di’n do it. Dumbledore ‘imself knew it. Come in. Sit.”

They do, arranging themselves around his kitchen table and leaning in to listen. He passes around cups of tea, more distracted than they’ve ever seen him, and starts to talk.

“When Riddle foun’ me an’ Aragog — my… my  _ friend —  _ he got me expelled. If it hadn’ been for Dumbledore…” Hagrid cuts off, voice choked with thick sadness. “I would’ve been sent to Azkaban.”

“No,” Hermione says, aghast. “At thirteen?”

“Yes,” he answers, nodding. He draws in a harsh breath and shakes his head, beard shifting noisily. “When we found out it was a basilisk, he  _ tried.  _ He really did try to help.” Hagrid shrugs. “But… there’s no solid proof. Other than’ wha’ Professor Crowley has guessed.”

At the loud sniffle he lets out, Harry reaches out and pats his hand gently. “And if we got proof of it being a basilisk?”

“Would they… clear your name?” Asks Ron tentatively.”

Hermione, desperate, frowns. “They’d have to!”

Of course, the late-night discussion turns into one that travels. Refusing to relinquish their hold on the conversation, the three bring their argument to Crowley and Aziraphale, then deflate the moment the two — with regretful, angry tones — tell them just how much they’d tried as well. Unfortunately, this leads to them probing how any of them even  _ know.  _ Harry, hastily giving them an explanation about history books and cleaning trophies, drags his friends away before they can dig even deeper. He’d learned his lesson about keeping huge secrets from his godparents before, but Tom was interesting, and he didn’t want to submit the book in for questioning just yet.

Before anyone can blink, the subject fades into disuse. Oliver has begun to force the quidditch team to work harder, longer, and earlier — their next match was against Hufflepuff, and they all know how formidable their team was — and Harry had to admit that it was  _ working,  _ no matter how grumpy it made his teammates, and no matter how little time it left for quiet discussions with friends. 

The evening just before Saturday’s match, Oliver dismisses their practice session early. With a clap of his hand and a mirthful chuckle, the exuberant teenager pesters them away until everyone has dispersed. Harry climbs the stairs to the dormitory with steady, confident steps, smiling and carrying his broom about with a careful hand.

His cheerful mood doesn’t last long. At the top of the stairs stands Neville — typically someone Harry would  _ want  _ to see, especially lately, now that he’s started to get closer with the boy — looking frantic. He waves Harry over and gulps in a heavy breath of air, grimacing.

“Harry- I don’t know who did it- I just-“

Neville cuts himself off and bites his lip, pushing Harry through the door to the dormitory despite his protests. 

Harry’s trunk has been torn open, everything within it strewn across the floor and his bed with an uncaring air. His cloak is destroyed, his sheets torn and drawers wrenched open, his possessions scattered about, some broken and some thrown nearly across the room. 

Harry walks to the bed with an open mouth, eyes wide as he treads over the pages of a book he’d gotten from Aziraphale. Neville, pattering about and trying to find something to do to, starts to help him push his sheets off the bed and inspect the massive knife marks within them. The door to the dormitory bursts open a moment later, Ron, Seamus, and Dean all coming in and then promptly swearing loudly at the mess about them.

“What the hell happened, Harry?” Asks Ron, looking about breathlessly. 

“No idea,” he responds, watching as Ron picks up his robes, finding that the pockets have been turned inside out.

“Someone’s been searching for something.” He looks back at Harry. “Is anything missing?”

He shrugs and continues shoving his things back in his trunk. Only when he finishes pressing the remainder of his books away does he find the absence of Tom’s journal.

“It’s gone,” he says to Ron, eyes wide. “Riddle’s journal.”

_ “What?” _

Harry jerks his head toward the door and stands, the two of them racing out of the dormitory and meeting Hermione in the common room, reading a book of her own.

“Tom’s journal got stolen,” he says angrily. She looks up, looking surprised to see them and surprised to hear the news.

“But only a Gryffindor could get in here?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, annoyance resurfacing. Someone he  _ knew  _ had to have taken the journal, but he had no clue who it could’ve been. “Exactly.”

The next day, he trudges out of bed and tries to banish the book from his mind. He’d got quidditch today — and by Oliver’s cheery, bright expression, it was going to be a perfect match. At the breakfast table, all he can think of is to scan the room for the thief, though, wondering if any one of them could be the person who’d stolen it. Hermione and Ron both urge him to report the theft to someone — his godparents, perhaps? — but that would require explaining what the journal could  _ do.  _

So, he leaves the great hall without another act on the book's behalf, tugging on his quidditch robes and chatting amicably with the rest of the team. Hufflepuff has already gotten on their brooms, kicking off and practicing with Madam Hooch throwing the quaffle up and into the air for them. They’re about to make the cross into the stadium, when McGonagall, wearing a grim expression, steps into their path.

“What’s this?” Oliver says, face dropping in worry — more at the possibility of being stopped than for whatever the reason she’d paused them might’ve been — and he takes a step back, broom poised as if he’s going to hit someone with it. Harry bristles with the rest of the team, listening as McGonagall starts to speak.

“This match has been canceled,” she says quickly, raising a hand and silencing Wood as soon as the boy, white-faced, starts to speak. “Please, go back to your dormitories  _ immediately.  _ And Mr. Potter- I think you’d better come with me.”

He blanches — this might mean someone else had been petrified and Harry had been pinned as a suspect once again — but steps forward to follow her, chasing her heels. To his surprise, when Ron detaches from the crowd of disappointed Gryffindors and runs toward them, she doesn’t even protest. 

“Yes, I think you’d better come too, Mr. Weasley,” she says, voice a worrying amount of gentle. The two boys share twin glances — last time they’d been taken somewhere by her together, Harry’d almost been sent back to the Dursley’s — but instead, find themselves standing inside the infirmary. 

“Now, this will be a bit of a shock,” she says, in that same, strangely gentle voice. “There has been another attack… another double attack at that.”

Harry’s heart clenches, eyes widening. He doesn’t know  _ who  _ it could’ve been — couldn’t have been Crowley or Azirpahale, Ron wouldn’t have been brought, couldn’t have been any of Ron’s family, Harry wouldn’t have been pulled away either — but he finds himself anxiously tugging at his sleeve either way. 

Madam Pomfrey is bent over a fifth-year Ravenclaw when they enter, her hands held over her face in an expression of shock. Right next to her-

_ “Hermione,”  _ Ron groans, running up to her with Harry hot on his heels. She’s frozen with a mirror in her hands — most of the students had begun to carry them, realizing that petrification would probably be better than death — and a warped, open-mouthed expression, a grisly look, alien on her face.

“They were found near the library,” McGonagall says, shooting them both a sympathetic look. “I need to escort you back to Gryffindor Tower, but I thought you ought to know.”

—-

_ “All students will return to their House common rooms by six o'clock in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time.” _

_ “You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher.” _

_ All further Quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities.” _

McGonagall, rolling up her parchment and looking at them all, starts again in a choked voice. “I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed.” She takes in a slow breath, steadying herself and rising to a perfect-postured position once again like it hurts her back to do so. “It is likely that the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they might know  _ anything _ about them to  _ please  _ come forward.”

And with that, she turns and exits from the portrait hole, leaving the Gryffindor's in stunned silence. 

That silence breaks a second later, sending the group into a cascading waterfall of shouts and angry calls for answers. Fortunately, none of them were blaming Harry much at all— they’d seen him at the time of the attack— but he can’t bring himself to care.

"That's two Gryffindors down, not counting a Gryffindor ghost, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff, " Lee Jordan remarks, laughing darkly and counting off each causality with his fingers. Then, in an incredulous voice: “Haven't any of the teachers noticed that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn't it obvious all this stuff's coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin, the monster of Slytherin - why don't they just chuck all the Slytherins out?" 

Everyone else nods and shouts their assent by the time he’s done, continuing to add theories of who the monster might be. Percy, usually trying to keep the rest of the group in order, slumps in the corner, the head boy talking to him quietly, sympathetically.

"Percy's in shock," George says quietly, for once speaking about his brother with a sort of worried fondness. "That Ravenclaw girl — Penelope Clearwater — she's a prefect. I don't think he thought the monster would dare attack a prefect."

Harry finds that he’s only half-listening. Images of Hermione’s prone, crumpled form, and Tom Riddle’s horrible sneer as he stares at Aragog, refuse to do anything but dash through his mind. The same thoughts seem to be assaulting Ron as well, who, looking quite pale, leans over to Harry and starts to speak.

“What’re we gonna do? He asks quietly. “D’you think they suspect your godfather?”

There’s a moment, where Ron only watches. Harry collects his thoughts in the silence that ensues, eyes blank as they drift across the red of the wall across him. “We’ve got to go and talk to him,” He finally says, making up his mind to go and try to find the chamber. “Maybe we can help him find the snake?”

“But McGonagall said we need to stay in our dorms-“

“I think,” Harry says, even more quietly, “I need to get my dad’s cloak out again.” 

—-

It isn’t that Crowley  _ disliked  _ tea. He didn’t drink it much — they didn’t have any in hell, not unless you counted the dried tea bags Beelzebub sometimes burnt to set off people’s allergies — and he’d only really been able to drink it with Aziraphale. Tonight, when Hagrid hands him a cup of murky, brown-and-green leaf water, he declines it.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, contrasting Crowley’s dismissive  _ egh.  _

“O’ course,” Rubeus says amicably, standing and walking over to the fire. The flames, beginning to die, flicker upward proudly with a bit of heavy-handed coaxing. He smiles and lumbers back around, settling a tray of heavy-looking biscuits against the table. He’s about to sit once again when a frantic knocking sounds against his door.

His first instinct, Crowley notes with a worried glance, is to reach from his crossbow. He picks it up and Fang follows, letting out a slight whimper as Rubeus yanks the door open. 

Surprisingly, instead of a shout or a glare, Hagrid sets the crossbow down. “Oh,” he says, turning away from the door and blocking the rest of the room’s gaze. “What’re you two doing here?”

“What’s that for?” Asks a familiar voice, as Harry steps inside, Crowley and Aziraphale standing with the surprise of seeing him. 

“Nothin’,” he mutters. “S’nothin. I’ve just been expecting…” Waving his hand, Rubeus gestures them back inside. “Sit down, I’ll pour some tea-“

“What  _ are  _ you two doing here?” Aziraphale, hiding just how cross he is, sits back down. “It isn’t safe to be wandering about the castle right now!”

“You should know that better than anyone, Harry,” Crowley says, unimpressed. “You can  _ hear  _ the damn thing.”

The two boys seem to deflate at the admonishing, slumping into their seats and gaining just a bit of protective worry from the adults in the room. “S’ about Hermione,” Ron says, voice quiet, and hurt.

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath, voice not without the smallest of breaks when he finally speaks. His brow turns, a concerned, helpless downturn of his lips taking up residence on his face. 

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” 

“I heard abou’ that,” Rubeus says, voice choking off near the end. 

Crowley, growing frustrated (not worried, Demons didn’t get worried) by the misery in the room, shakes his head adamantly. He’s as confident in himself with his plants as he is in his ability to shed his skin. Neville’d been helping him, too— the boy was a talented horticulturist. “She’ll be  _ fine.  _ The mandrakes will be ready soon, and I’ll be able to-“

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door. 

Rubeus drops the fruitcake he’d been carrying over. Harry and Ron give each other panicked looks, scrambling for the side of the room as Azirpahale hurried to toss their cloak around them, bundling them up like it’s the depths of winter. They’re only barely under the side table by the time Crowley’s pulled the door open, leaning against the frame and scowling. 

“Good evening, Crowley.”

Albus steps inside as Crowley shifts backward, his limbs doing a stiff little spasm as he drops back into his chair. The headmaster looks deadly serious, walking inside and being followed by a second, oddly dressed man. Crowley just barely recognizes him. Cornelius Fudge, someone Beelzebub had had their shriveled, feathery not-heart set on tormenting, before they’d realized he would grow up to be a bloody  _ wizard.  _ Most of  _ them _ were exempt from anything but the  _ big  _ meddling. They were much too good at warding it all off. 

Now, in the dark of the night and all grown in age, the minister of magic is dressed in a rumpled suit, a long black cloak, and a rather large bowler hat tucked under his arm. He too, looks just as severe as the headmaster before him, with a thin sheen of sweat turning his forehead to a glossy pink. 

If Crowley was confused at the intrusion, Rubeus looks as if he might be sick. He’s pale with nerves, and the tea shaking in his hands seems to quell none of it as he creaks back into the chair heading the table. Shooting him a sympathetic look, Crowley turns back away in a serpentine matter, starting again at the rest of the inhabitants of the room through his glasses, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m glad to have caught you here, Professor,” says Albus quietly. Fudge nods at this, and sets his hat on the table, settling into the room and making to speak.

“It’s very bad business,” he says shortly, waving one hand swiftly through the air and cutting it apart. “We thought- well, we thought we might’ve needed you tonight, Rubeus, but the evidence provided has made the Ministry act against  _ other  _ matters.”

“If you would excuse me,” Aziraphale begins, “who  _ are  _ you here for, then?”

“Er- you are Professor Fell, are you not?” Aziraphale nods and Fudge turns back to Crowley as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “Good, good- not for you, of course. The Ministry needs Professor  _ Crowley.” _

He pronounces the name wrong, notes the Demon. The syllables are sharper, bringing a grimace to the man’s face as if the longer bits of the letter have begun to cut him. Crowley, feeling put off by the butchering of his name and the situation both, frowns, planting an elbow on the table and un-slouching. 

“You… ngk- what?”

“I assure you,” Albus says, with a calm sort of irritation in his voice, no doubt at Fudge’s insistence to question him. “That the professors I have hired have my  _ full  _ confidence.”

“I’m under a  _ lot  _ of pressure, you must understand,” explains the man hastily, turning a deeper shade of red in indignancy, temper heating. “If it turns out it isn’t Crowley, then he’ll be back, but I need to-“

_ “Be back?”  _ Asks Aziraphale, slowly rising from his seat, something crawling into his voice that isn’t as airy as it should be. Crowley had become well aware of what Angel’s warpath could become— especially one such as Aziraphale— and he stands, shooting him a placating look that seems to do nothing but reaffirm his want to attack. “Be back from where, Cornelius?”

Fudge, as if surprised that he knows his name at all, jerks back, frowning, affronted. The moment he’s finished spluttering he collects himself, smoothing his suit and nodding so hard his suit crumpled even more, making him look even shorter still. 

“If someone else is caught, you’ll be let out with a full apology, you  _ must _ understand,” Cornelius explains, shrinking under the combined rage of a Demon, Angel, half-giant half-wizard, and two tiny full-wizards under an invisibility cloak. Then, there’s a knock at Rubeus’s door, and he seems to inflate like a balloon once again. Albus is the one to answer it, tugging the door open and nodding to the figure it reveals. 

There stands Lucius Malfoy, sweeping swiftly into the room and eliciting a grimace of anger from Rubeus, hands inching toward his crossbow again. Even Fang rumbles out a low, menacing growl. Crowley and Aziraphale, who’d been interested in interfering in this man’s specific parenting styles for quite some time, stand a little straighter. 

“What’re you doin' here?” Asks Rubeus testily, look like he’s just eaten an undercooked bit of batter. “Get out of my house!” 

"My _dear man,”_ Lucius starts, simpering sweet, “Please, believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside your - er - do you really call this a house?” He sneers about and knocks a pan to the side. Aziraphale and Crowley’s combined looks of contempt seem to have no effect — he looks straight to Fudge. “I simply called at the school and was told that the headmaster was here."

“And what do you want with me, Lucius?” Albus asks politely, but there’s a clear fire in his eye when he sees the way the man looks disdainfully about the cabin.

“Oh, no, I don’t truly need  _ you,  _ Albus. I required Fudge — you simply happened to be accompanying him, and I found him through you.” A smile and a nod, and he goes silent once again. 

“Ah- yes- back to the order at hand-“ Fudge mutters, unrolling a piece of parchment. “Er- Anthony...  _ J?  _ Crowley? The Ministry of Magic hereby decrees that you must be detained and transported to Azkaban until further evidence of your innocence can be presented-“

“-Evidence such as him being the only person currently holding the snake back?” Demands Aziraphale, a quiet, polite sort of outrage clear on his face. He slams his palms into the table insistently. “You-  _ you-“ _

Crowley holds up a hand, silencing it — specifically, Aziraphale and Rubeus, who really did look like he was going for his crossbow — in one fell swoop. The room falls quiet as he commands it, a brief, hissing sigh lapsing out from his lips as he pulls his sunglasses away, blinking in the sudden influx of light. Gold hits moonlight and pupils contract as he spreads his palms against the table, relishing in the way Fudge’s face has gone white and Lucius looks as if he’s eaten a raw fish. 

“I can assure you,” Crowley whispers, deadly quiet, sharp-eyed and just verging on inhuman, yet echoing through the room and nearly shattering glass. “That out of anyone here, you do  _ not  _ want to get on  _ my _ bad side, Corneliusss  _ Fudge.” _

“I have seen more deaths than your mind can  _ comprehend _ . I have  _ watched- _ as the world bubbled over and flooded and boiled and everyone and  _ everything died-  _ and I have defended you useless lumps of  _ sssskin  _ through it  _ all.”  _

The words, spat out like poison, seem to strike as a physical blow to the ones they address. Crowley shifts his hands from the wood and slides them sinuously into his pockets, glancing over to send a delighted smile to Aziraphale. Then, the atoms of the air, knowing just what to do, allow him the space to bend and fold, twisting his body till his nose is an inch from Fudge’s trembling face. 

“If you dare to believe I would harm — let alone  _ kill _ a single child in this school-“ he snatches the order paper from Fudge’s badly shaking hands and tears one, massive rip down the middle, watching in satisfaction as the minister drops what has suddenly begun to burn at the edges. “Then you’re sorely mistaken.”

Letting out one last sigh, straightening up, and sliding on a new pair of glasses — ones that find that they’ve suddenly been formed from nothing at all  _ —  _ on his nose, he smiles. 

“So. Catch me if you can.”

A wave of a hand, a snap of two fingers, a whisper of what sounds suspiciously like “ _ ciao!” —  _ and Crowley disappears in a flash of black, feathery flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...... what do you think?


	7. The Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw nuts I’m not sure I’m a fan of this one
> 
> Anyways watch out: there’s discussion of past child abuse and present child neglect. Also jfc Dumbledore needs to get his shit together 
> 
> Hope you can enjoy more than I did! The next chapter will be,,, juicier. :)

For a moment, the entire room is silent. 

It drifts off into a foggy haze of confusion to rival Trewlaney’s, each person — save for Harry, who has Ron’s hand clapped over his mouth to stop him from laughing — frozen. Aziraphale, a master of adapting to any situation that a Demon such as Crowley might’ve inconvenienced his way into, quickly recovers. There is no snake in his pocket or note in his hands, but he expects that Crowley will make a rather dramatic re-entry eventually. He couldn’t have miracled himself far off after all. He has plants to attend to. 

“What the  _ hell,”  _ Fudge begins, before settling into a breathy pause, both for effect and in his own confusion, “Was _ that.” _

“Magic, “Aziraphale says with a simperingly sweet smile and a clasp of his well-manicured hands, holding back a tactless laugh. “You are all quite proficient in that, are you not?’

Lucius Malfoy, spluttering, even more pale-faced than his own hair, stamps his cane into the ground as if to draw attention back to himself. “Dumbledore, it seems you have a bit of a warding problem, do you not?”

“I- I don’t  _ understand,”  _ mutters the headmaster quietly, looking slightly shaken. “Was that… disapparation?”

“Clearly!” Fudge slams his hat back onto his head, jaw quivering, at a loss for words and for options. “Clearly! You have a quite extensive problem on your hands, Albus!”

The headmaster in question turns to Lucius now. It’s a bit impressive, how quickly he switches from startled to emotionless. 

_ (Must be how he has so many people relying on him,  _ supposes the Angel in the room, rather testily.)

“Lucius, if you would be so kind as to attempt to disapparate? I would myself, but as headmaster, it is not an ability I find hard to use.”

Lucius — white-faced, gripping his walking stick as if it keeps him from swinging it about and screaming in terror, knuckles whitening, teeth grit, eyes wide — looks over as if he hasn’t quite heard. Then, startlingly pleasant and cooperative, he gives a curt nod. 

“I’ll attempt it, as long as I can be  _ assured  _ that this accursed school won’t only splinch me in  _ half.”  _ Regaining his composure — and ability to sneer — Lucius puts on a hardened face and shuts his eyes to concentrate. 

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a moment or two more, where the man’s face starts to go slightly pink as if he’s holding down an ungraceful noise. His cane starts to shudder, only disrupted when finally, Fudge shakes his arm, breaking the spell. 

“Don’t-“ he yanks himself away from the man and glares, looking a mix of embarrassed and nauseous at his futile attempt. “Clearly,  _ headmaster,  _ this professor of yours has done something to your school. If you do not  _ fix it,  _ the board will be forced into  _ action.” _

“Now now-“ Fudge gulps, tucking his hands away to stop from fidgeting. “Let’s not be hasty-“

“You’re not taking Dumbledore  _ anywhere,”  _ growls Rubeus, taking a step forward. In the confusion of everything, he has yet to relinquish his crossbow once again. Lucius, noting the clear and sharpened point of his arrow, swallows.

“Pardon me for wanting to keep these students safe,” he replies, voice not without a half tremble, his neck craning upward in an effort to become more self-important and his tone a mere warble. “Good  _ day,  _ gentlemen.”

With that — and forgetting his business with Fudge entirely — Lucius sweeps from the room, cloak slapping against the door as it shirts behind him. Albus and Fudge are quick to follow, the latter whispering to the former angrily about  _ fixing his blasted school. _

The moment the wooden door rattles shut, Aziraphale is bombarded with questions. Ron and Rubeus seem more than enough to overwhelm him, as they set down their crossbows and throw off their cloaks. Harry, giggling off to the side, is absolutely no help, and Aziraphale frowns at him, disapprovingly. 

“Please-“ the Angel calls desperately, finally having enough of the constant stream of unanswerable and quick-shot questions. The two go silent — both wearing twin, wide-eyed expressions and looking quite childish — and glance to him expectantly. “Rubeus, dear, go ahead.”

“I know-“ he pants, out of breath from speaking so quickly, “Dumbl’dore’s th’ only one who can disapparate an’ apparate out o’ Hogwarts.”

Aziraphale, letting out a bit of a mischievous chuckle, smiles. He never was quite a devious as Crowley, but even Angel’s had a habit of ruffling each other’s wings from time to time. It was time to have a bit of fun, in his most ethereal opinion. 

“That wasn’t quite… Magic, persay,” he suggests, coaxing another snorting laugh out of Harry and pretending he doesn’t want to give one of his own as well. “More like a…” -- pretending to think, he taps his jaw then lifts a hand and arranges his mouth in a comical  _ O -- “ _ Oh- a miracle! Yes, I suppose that would work for you.”

Ron shoves past Rubeus and gapes at him. “But- he  _ is  _ a wizard. Isn’t he?” 

“Oh yes. Crowley and I both are wizards. Or witches — we do find the distinctions between the two terms a bit arbitrary, you must see.” He gestures to himself — pausing, only for a moment, at his chest, around where a pair of bright and fluffy wings might erupt from his back if he so desired. “It is a matter of whether wizards are the  _ only  _ thing we are.”

“Halfblood?” Rubeus suggests.

Harry shakes his head. “Half-bloods are still wizards, right?”

The other man, letting out a nervous noise, nods. “Vampires, then? Werewolfs, maybe? Er- but tha’ doesn’t explain the magic!” 

_ “Impossible  _ magic,” Ron adds, voice quiet. “That wasn’t possible!”

“It was possible,” Aziraphale corrects gently, “for someone not quite wizard or vampire or werewolf or mortal at all, yet with the possibility of all those things floating around for them to be if they’d like. It really isn’t the  _ most  _ complicated, if you don’t think too hard about it.” A reassuring smile and a sip of his tea, and he stands. “Now. I really ought to bring  _ you  _ two back to bed, shouldn’t I?” 

—- 

As summer creeps along the edges of the school, so do exams. Cloud blue skies and silvery golden sunsets bloom along with flowers the color of dusk and mandrakes nearly ready to be harvested. Quills and papers quickly run out of ink and space, while books are opened and bookmarked and studied in a whirlwind of frantic, last-minute learning. Crowley’s absence does manage to warp it a bit, but Harry perseveres.

(Anyways — it wasn’t rare to catch Aziraphale carrying about a rather large red-bellied snake.)

The teachers and students all had begun to grow quite accustomed to the serpent. It had fallen ungracefully from a tree and into Aziraphale’s lap, one sunny day, startling the Professor out of his skin and sending him into a fit of scolding the thing while he tried to hold back from giving away just  _ who  _ the smug-looking snake was. He’d tugged it into his arms a few minutes later, letting it encircle his neck and carrying it about to his class. To the Not-Crowley’s dismay, the Angel had been put in charge of herbology. This meant barely any weed killing, an influx of slugs, and  _ much  _ too much pampering. Still, somehow, the plants stayed healthy and neat. A miracle, remarked Rubeus on occasion, watching as Aziraphale failed to do anything but wave his hands about and laugh as the snake around his neck hissed angrily. 

Still, even with the knowledge that Not-Crowley was still there, the air to the school refused to lighten. Visitors to the infirmary had been banned, all fear of the attacker returning still there, despite Crowley being gone. In fact, it seemed that people were starting to grow  _ more  _ nervous with the Demon gone. His office — normally a safe space for anyone in need — was empty, leaving certain students adrift. His strange, extensive knowledge of plants was lost, leaving Madam Pomfrey to spend hours agonizing through books for the seeming miracle cures he’d been able to cook up. People murmured that the professor really  _ did  _ seem to care about his students — bullying was significantly lessened in the areas of the school he frequented — and having  _ him  _ gone was an omen of bad luck. Trelawney, who seemed to find Aziraphale and Crowley a certain fixation of her own, wailed and lamented even more often. Aziraphale, glad to help anyone in need, found that several students in need of a stern talking to, snake and plant care advice or quiet mutterings of harsh encouragement directed his way.

He  _ also  _ had several students and professors looking him with worry, wondering if he was ok now that his husband was on the run from the ministry. The first time he was asked, it quite nearly gave him whiplash.

One outlier in all of those groups — not a student nor professor nor snake — was a  _ house elf. _

“Er- hello, Mr. Aziraphale, sir!” The elf had shouted once the library emptied out, one surprisingly warm Saturday, right after a day of rain and a break between before-summer cool. 

The Angel in question immediately whirls around in a perfect circle, eyes wide and tea held a bit closer, protectively, to his chest. The snake — nicknamed Janthony, first by Harry then most of the student population — always somewhere near its favorite being, is nowhere to be seen. 

“...Hello,” Aziraphale replies slowly, a confused quirk of the lips already setting about traipsing across his face. “Are you the house elf that Harry has been telling me about?”

Dobby flinches — bandaged hands hunching into his chest and eyes darting back with his head as if he’s been slapped — and nods. “I only meant to help him, sir, Dobby  _ never  _ wanted to hurt him. You see- Harry Potter is in-“

“Grave danger,” Aziraphale finishes, making sure to keep his voice gentle. He sets his tea down, and sighs as all sorts of Guardian Angels typically learn to do. “He does seem to get into trouble quite a bit, doesn’t he? I suppose he must take after his father. Oh- and his godfathers, I suppose. Would you like some tea?”

After about five minutes of high-pitched sobbing and one quickly aborted attempt to leap from a window, Dobby finally settles down, letting a cup of steaming tea be pressed into his hands. He sniffles and hiccups, wiping a thin, shuddering arm across his mouth as his knobby knees kick forward, watery gaze averted.

“I- I am sorry, sir- I just- no one-“ he lets out a half wail “-no one  _ ever  _ treats Dobby with such respect! The last time my young master tried to give me tea-  _ oh-  _ the ironing his father made me do! My feet that time, sir-“ he points to obvious scars on his heels, and seems not to notice Aziraphale’s furious expression “-they burnt so  _ badly!” _

“I am so, so sorry, Dobby.” Aziraphale, leaning forward, gives the house elf a soft pat to the shoulder and a smile, quieting his rage before it can get too obvious and its meaning can be misconstrued. “May I ask… who your master is? And if there is any way I might be able to help you?”

One minute of crying, an attempt to boil his tea and chug it too, and Dobby finally calms enough to get a word less self-deprecating out of trembling lips.

“I- Dobby simply  _ cannot  _ tell you, Mr. Aziraphale sir! Dobby would want nothing more than to tell you- but- sir- I would have to sit in the oven- or- or- I’d have to crush my hands- or-“

“Dobby,  _ please,  _ dear, it’s  _ alright.  _ You needn’t tell me anything you don’t want to. But-" And he's feeling quite overwhelmed now, as the implications of everything hit him, "-oh heavens- are  _ all  _ house elves treated this way?”

The tiny figure shakes his head vigorously, ears making slapping noises as they hit the sides of his head. “Not at all, sir. Dobby is treated like  _ dirt!”  _ He dips his hand into the heat of his tea before Aziraphale can stop him. With a stern (and maybe a little angry) glare from Aziraphale, the drink suddenly turns lukewarm in fear, and Dobby yanks his hand back out with a tight-lipped whimper. “But- but most house elves are happy to do their work. Their masters are kind- Dobby is just a  _ horrible  _ elf, he can’t do anything right-“

“But you helped Harry, didn’t you?” Attempting another angle, Aziraphale gestures vaguely to the walls, crossing his legs and leaning forward as if to hug Dobby, as he'd very much like to do. “You told him about the danger, and you tried to warn him. You did that right.”

“But- Harry Potter is still in danger-“

“No, he isn’t. I can assure you-“ and he hopes that the bit of Angelic essence he lets leak out isn’t  _ too  _ obvious “-Harry Potter is  _ safe.  _ Even if, by some  _ hellish  _ miracle, he finds himself petrified, my dearest Crowley and I will make sure to make him  _ tickety boo  _ as soon as possible.”

Dobby lets out an exaggerated gasp at this, a sort of painful-looking hope filling his face. Eager, he leans forward like a gossiping aunt -- the type to talk too much at a funeral -- nearly spilling his tea. 

“Better not to repeat that, if you’d be so kind?” 

Aziraphale, pleased with the effect, watches Dobby shake his head.

“Now. About your attempts to help…”

—-

Unluckily, later that week, Lockhart steps back on grounds. 

He brings with him tales of a new book in progress along with knowledge of new muggle creations -- such as “comic-con,” and “gas stations” and “Pringles.” Every step is infused with the  _ utmost  _ confidence, making quite a few muggle-born students giggle at the Lisa Frank t-shirt he arrives in, smugly proclaiming that he’d been given it by the most dangerous-looking woman he’d ever met -- she had  _ five  _ piercings! -- at a store called “good-will," where she said he looked home-less. 

Whatever that could mean.

Harry and Ron, sitting in the back of their first class with neither Crowley nor any real education for a Defense Against The Dark Arts class, watch as Lockhart bounds within, thankfully back to his traditional robes and devoid of purple unicorns and swirly looking tigers with silly catchphrases.

“Come now,” he cries, splaying his arms out at everyone and seeming to think he's retained his former fanbase. Instead, everyone stares at him with identically blank expressions of mistrust and boredom, seldom anything but a murmur of disinterest slipping from their lips as they gossip about where he’d gone. “Why the long faces?”

When he’s only given a few expressions of exasperation, he snorts, taking the change with an irritating amount of optimism. "Don't you people realize," he says, speaking slowly, as if he thinks they're all just a bit more than stupid, "the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away-“

"Says who?" says Dean Thomas loudly. It’s a good thing he does — the moment Gilderoy starts talking, Harry looks as if he might snap his quill in half, Ron trying to stop him from getting up to choke the professor and battling his own passion as well.

“My dear young man,” he continues, chortling, still slow in speech, yet gesticulating wildly, “the Minister of Magic wouldn't have taken Professor Crowley if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty.”

“Oh yes, he would’ve,” Ron replies loudly, trying to speak over the sound of Harry kicking his desk and swearing in irritation. The rest of the class looks back, then to Gilderoy again, curiosity growing.

"I flatter myself I know a touch more about Crowley's arrest than you do, Mr. Weasley," Lockhart reprimands in the sort of high, shrill tone that suggests he has something long and phallic up his ass.

This seems to be the wrong thing to say, and the last straw for Harry. He stands from his desk with an abrupt  _ thud,  _ eyes narrowed behind his glasses and hair seeming to raise. 

The candles nearest to him, as always when one couldn't help but let a bit of excess magic leak out, begin to flick.

“You’re an  _ idiot,”  _ he starts, seething, not only because he wants to defend his godfather but knowing that the Demon would be just as spitting mad Harry is now, “and you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Now Harry-“

The boy in question only kicks his desk forward an inch or two and grabs his books off the wood, quieting the entire room into silence and ignoring the eyes of every single other student on him. “I’m giving  _ myself  _ detention, you  _ twat.”  _

With that, he sends a nod to Ron, pushes his hair back, and rips right out of the room.

The moment he leaves, Gilderoy’s hair goes straight up on his head, and Harry revels in the scream it elicits. Stomping through the halls, he finds himself wandering about and hiding from prefects in an attempt to calm the steady anger in his chest and the calm, bitter hatred for adults still growing within him. There were  _ very  _ few he knew he could trust — McGonagall and Hagrid, for example, and the Weasleys and Anathema, of course, amongst a few others — but Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t even count as  _ adults,  _ and he was tired of not being about to rely on those he really ought to be able to rely on.

A year ago, he never would’ve thought of bursting out of class like that. Maybe his father would’ve. According to several exasperated teachers, he was a “troublemaker with hair far too messy for its own good.” Harry, on the other hand, knew  _ exactly  _ what happened to children who spoke out. They’d be thrown into a cupboard with a brand new bruise on their cheek, forced to kick through the lock once everyone had gone to sleep if they wanted to eat at all for the next week. 

Now, after a year and a half with Aziraphale and Crowley as not-quite-parents, he knew that punishments could be few and far between. If he got in enough trouble to afford a talking-to, it usually concluded with a cup of hot chocolate pushed into his hands and a reassurance that he wasn’t in much trouble at all, it was ok, a bit of troublemaking was healthy, etc. 

Still, none of that meant the fear didn't occasionally crop up. So, instead of heading directly to the library to announce his outburst and face Aziraphale as soon as possible, he finds himself running out to the greenhouses — empty of any Demon, now, — and waiting. He’s not quite sure what for. Something in plants whispers to him. The noisier ones had always been the proudest, ignoring Crowley when feeling especially proud. With him gone, they've crescendoed to a shout. He’s meant to be here, he’s sure of that. 

The answer to the second call of the plants comes about an hour later, with the beginnings of a setting sun and the sound of light footsteps on a beaten path. Harry has tucked himself into the grassy veranda between the two greenhouses, breathing in the cool evening air and watching as the tentacula vines whisper and sway. Now, with the swinging open of a door and a rustle of new breathing, he looks up to see Neville's surprised appearance. 

“Harry?” He blurts, coming to a stop a few feet away from the one other inhabitant of the room. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Skipping classes,” he responds blithely, picking his head up and shooting the boy a half-smirk. 

Neville lifts his lips in the tiniest of smiles. “Me too. Ron told me what happened.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, did he? Lockhart got what he deserved. My godfather is  _ innocent.” _

“Yeah. Oh.  _ Oh.”  _ Neville’s eyes widen and he slumps to the ground, grinning and excited with his legs splayed out. “So that’s how you’re related! My money was on an adopted father — Dean thought he was your uncle. I didn’t know you had a godfather, Harry!”

Realizing what he’d just revealed, Harry straightens, only to notice just what they'd been betting on. “You mean to say- you all  _ knew?” _

“They come with you all the time. It was kinda obvious, really, Harry, none of you are at all subtle.” Neville laughs awkwardly. “I’m stuck with my gran, me.”

“Your grans an idiot,” Harry mutters, knowingly tactless. The boy across from him blanches, fingers suddenly tugging a tuft of green from the ground then looking rather guiltily at the bald patch.

“No- she’s really not that bad, Harry- I promise! She’s just- she just has high expectations, that’s all.”

“Neville,” he interrupts, letting out a bitter snort. “My aunt and uncle made me sleep in a cupboard. I  _ get it.” _

The gap between the two greenhouses goes quiet. For a moment, all that can be heard is the far off noises of the start of crickets, an incoming thunderstorm rolling in on the horizon. The setting sun seems to crackle with warmth, rolling shadows down Neville’s stricken face as he considers the statement. Then, suddenly-

“Why doesn’t the school  _ do anything?”  _ He whispers as if afraid Dumbledore’s about to stumble up and shout at him for being ungrateful. “Why don’t they- they help anyone? They left you with your aunt and uncle and they left me with my gran. She’s- she’s really not nice sometimes, Harry,” he chokes out, words unstoppable now that they’ve started, “my uncle- he’s the worst, he keeps trying to get me to do better at magic by tossing me out windows and things, but she- she’s always so  _ disappointed.” _

Harry, surprised by the emotion but unsurprised by the truth, lurches forward and throws his arms about the boy, listening even as Neville freezes up, nearly jerking away before settling in. 

“They know, don’t they? I mean- Dumbledore does. He’s got that great book, it tells him what’s happening with underage wizards so he can find out where to send letters. M’ mom told me that when-“

He cuts off quite abruptly, and Harry realizes he’s never thought to ask  _ why  _ Neville stays with his grandmother. It was always so obvious why Harry couldn’t be with his own parents, and he’d never made out to wonder why  _ Neville  _ couldn’t. Had they met a similar fate as Harry’s own, and so many others under the reign of Voldemort? Had they died young, or had he had them at all? 

Leaning out of the hug, Neville sighs. 

“But really, Harry. I’m ok. She’s just… they’re family. It’s just difficult.”

“It doesn’t have to be, you know,” Harry offers quietly. He settles back into his corner and waves his hand about, watching as glittering light gathers at his fingertips. FOr him, the choice had been obvious -- he’d gone with his godfathers as soon as he could. He knew it might not be the same for Neville, but he needed to try. “You could come with me.”

Neville shakes his head. “No, I can’t. Thank you, though. I need to be there. I need to be with her.”

There’s no further room for argument. Harry hears the door swing open once more, pounding footsteps and racing breath stuttering inside as a flash of red hair and lanky limbs come running.Ron, grinning weakly, slumps onto the floor beside the two of them.

“Sorry m’ late,” he mumbles through a mouthful of brownie. He hands Harry and Neville each a tart, then staggers into another round of talking. “I got caught up — Dumbledore gave some huge speech about safety and all that at dinner. I don’t think Fell has noticed you’re gone yet, Harry, so I brought-“ he breaks off and yanks a bundle of fabric out from behind himself “-this.”

“Thanks!” Harry catches his invisibility cloak and grins, wrapping it around himself. Neville’s eyes catch on the whole in the air it creates and he gasps loudly, an incredulous smile snapping into place. 

“I fancy a bit of troublemaking,” Harry tells them in ways of an explanation. Ron nods, a twin smirk appearing on his face as he glances between Harry and Neville.

“I- that’s an invisibility cloak,” Neville says in awe. “I thought those were fake!”

“Nope.”

The boy shakes his head in disbelief for a few seconds, reaching out to tuck his hand under one of the loose folds and watch as it disappears. 

“Well.” Neville, naturally nervous, but gaining a lilt to his voice that suggests a bit of smug enjoyment, slowly starts to speak. “We could always go find out which student died last time the chamber was opened?”

Fifteen minutes later - more trips and stumbles than Harry would like to talk about - an excessive amount of Ron grumbling about missing the rest of dinner - they’ve arrived at Dumbledore’s office. Neville and Ron both confirm that all school records — especially those of deaths, lives, and the elaborate in-betweens — are meant to be kept within. It’s a bit of an endeavor, finding their way within. After five minutes of confirming Dumbledore’s absence, whispering random candies to an increasingly disgruntled gargoyle, and then  _ finally  _ making the climb up the stairs, they manage to break into the office. 

“Ok- I know it’s supposed to be somewhere around here,” Ron mutters, throwing the cloak off of himself and running up the steps to the bookshelves with a hurried pace. Neville and Harry are quick to follow, watching and copying Ron as he starts to paw through books. 

The volumes are old, peeling and grey, leather chipping off and golden lettering gilded against their spines starting to slough away. Inspecting closer, Harry does find a single magazine, pressed between two volumes about magical alchemy. It’s mostly about knitting patterns, save for a single page with a recipe for beard restoration potions glued within, smelling faintly of smoke. Quickly leafing past the strange, outlying volume, he continues looking. He’s nearly to the edge of the shelving unit when he finally notices it. 

It’s in a large glass case a few feet away, hidden away behind a half-disturbed curtain, purple, long, and wrinkled as if someone had hastily shoved it out of the way and forgotten to move it back. Suddenly pausing in his search, Harry walks away on hesitant steps. something  _ off  _ about the book, compelling him toward it.

Someone grabs his wrist. He turns to see Ron, holding on and looking at him with a nervous eye. 

“That’s it, Harry. That’s the record book.” Ron lets go and steps past him, pushing the long cloth covering off and away. Glancing at the book in awe, it’s as obvious as anything that  _ this  _ is The Book. “Do you… do you wanna open it?”

Neville, sensing the hesitation in the air, takes initiative, and slowly slides the glass panel off the top. It’s a simple construction, one square box that reflects the gold of the candlelight about them, a plaque of blank, empty metal resting atop its lid. It clatters as Neville drops it to the ground, eyes widening as the solid cover of the book flips open of its own accord. The pages turn and twitch as if alive, impatiently flipping toward an unknown end goal. Panicking, Neville slams his fist into the book and lets out a little shriek as the parchment comes to an abrupt stop.

“Neville Frank Longbottom,” reads the boy in question off the page, a hand coming up to press gently to his own chest. “Son of Frank Olive Longbottom and Alive Marie Longbottom.”

“Woah,” Ron mutters in awe, pointing to a small square of writing below Neville’s name. “Look at that!”

It reads, in clear, shifting script, seeming to float in the grooves of the paper:

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster’s office.  _

“It knows where you are. And hey-“ Harry points are a list below it, extending down the page as he watches it, making him dizzy. There are many other places listed beneath, going from  _ The fourth bedroom of twenty-four Silverton place,  _ all the way to  _ Sir Wizzleton’s squib re-education.  _ “-It’s got where you’ve been!”

Neville looks, then blushes furiously, smacking the top of the book closed again and shrugging sheepishly. “Er- let's find the death.”

“What, got something to hide?” Ron grins but lets the boy step back and lead Harry to the helm.

“You reckon I can just say it?” He asks, glancing at the two others with a raise of his eyebrows and a shove-back of his hair. Neville and Ron nod, prompting their elected leader to take a step back and a deep, shuddering breath. 

“The Chamber of Secrets!” He requests, bold and commanding. A moment later the pages start to ripple and jerk, hurtling past his face and reminding him of when he’d used Tom Riddle’s journal. Only a second or two after it’s begun, the pages slow to a stop, flipping only once more before finally landing to a stop. The same words he’d just spoken sit at the top. The only other information is a preliminary overview of what the Chamber is, and the lack of evidence of its existence other than one, tiny section.

_ Casualties. _

“Myrtle Elizabeth Warren,” he recites breathlessly. “Ron- it’s Moaning Myrtle!” 

“Wait- who?” Neville looks forward and narrows his eyes. “Who’s that?” 

“It’s the ghost in the girl's bathroom.” Ron snorts at Neville’s endearingly confused face. “The one always flooding the bloody halls?”

“Oh!” Neville laughs. “One time I fell in and had to go to charms all wet. I didn’t realize it was a ghost doing it. Wait- who told you?”

“Tell you later,” Harry says dismissively. He slams the book shut once more and plucks up the lid, sliding it back right as the noise of the shifting staircase crawling back open. “Oh no-“

His gasp is interrupted by the feeling of cloth against his shoulders. Neville tosses the cloak over Harry first, darting under and dragging Ron alongside him. The three hurry toward the door, only barely able to dart out of the room as Dumblefore and McGonagall enter, looking grim.

“That was close,” hisses Ron, lanky arms bumping into everything about. He throws the cloak off of them and presses his ear to the door, starting to listen to their discussion. “I wonder what they’re talking about?”

Neville and Harry follow in eavesdropping, careful to keep from pushing the door open while they press up against it. The grain scratches through their shirts and grates against their cheeks, stereotypically ancient. Still, they shove closer and strain to hear the muted discussion. 

“-Albus, it isn’t a matter of  _ when  _ anymore!”

“I’m quite aware, Minerva,” says their headmaster, voice not devoid of a sliver of fright despite the eerie calm he attempts to uphold. “I have all intentions of closing the school come tomorrow morning.”

Harry’s chest drops to his feet, each of the others letting out gasps that are only barely muffled in time. Minerva, matching the three outside the door, gives a noise of her own frustration, the noise of a hand meeting wood coming forth and making them all flinch. 

“It isn’t safe. They need to leave now. We don’t have any time — it’s already taken in someone to kill. How do we know it won’t take someone else by the time we’ve all awoken!” Her voice, trembling, goes taught with the effort of her shouting. It’s the most painfully emotional they’ve ever heard her, striking to see. “ _ Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever.  _ That is what it said, Albus! I  _ will not  _ allow a single student to be killed here!” 

“Minerva, I implore you to see reason-“

“Hasn’t he suffered enough? It’s bad enough that Mr. Weasley has a friend petrified in the hospital wing- you mean to tell me you will allow Ginny Weasley to expire down there and leave the chance of more casualties?” 

Ron drops like a puppet with cut strings. It’s like watching someone kill a spider, it’s limbs folding in on itself with an awful crunch, with no one able to do anything at all but watch. Harry is quick to join him on the floor, crouching down and giving him a look equal parts cautious and horrified. Neville lets out a gasp and presses even closer to the door, listening in while Harry tries to talk to his other friend. 

“We’ll get her back,” he whispers, fiercely determined. He takes Ron’s hands into his own, tugging him up to his feet and squeezing them lightly to bring the boy back to attention as he continues to space out. “Neville, let's go.”

“Er- they’ve decided we leave tomorrow,” he says shakily. “Are we really going to do this? Shouldn’t we just tell an adult where we think it is- guys, this is-“

“We’re going to,” Harry says, keeping himself from snapping. Ron nods at him, pale and clutching his hands like a lifeline. “Come on, before they come back out.”

Tugging the cloak over the three of them once again, Harry sets off in front. He hadn’t heard the snake this time, and he has no doubt that not-Crowley hadn’t either. This only strengthens his resolve to go on, steering him closer to the library by the moment. The lights of the castle seem dim somehow, swirling with some foreign, mourning magic, as if it knows all by itself that it’s just lost a student. Harry shakes the thought from the mind — Ginny wasn’t dead yet — and wills their group to go faster. 

“We’re here,” he hisses, before shoving the door open and finding the expansive room to be completely empty. He throws his cloak off and runs toward Aziraphale’s back office, noting the absence of light on inside. “Aziraphale!” He calls, almost frightened now. His godfather was an  _ Angel-  _ he’d be ok, but that didn’t mean that Harry wasn’t  _ worried. _

“Oh-“ finally, curly white hair and ocean blue eyes appear, the man standing in the doorway and twisting at the side of a glove. “Oh-  _ Harry,  _ dear, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I-“

“My- Mr. Weasley, why are you so pale? And Mr. Longbottom — no-“ he shakes his head firmly. “No, I need to go, and  _ you  _ three need to get to your dorms  _ immediately.  _ There’s no more Crowley to ward these things off, dear!”

“Azi-“

“Harry, I really am serious this time. I’ve been called into a  _ very  _ urgent meeting,” he says, cocking his head and pointing at them severely. “I need to go and see what has happened now. I’ll lead you three up to-“

_ “Aziraphale!”  _ Harry shouts, going pale the second the words leave his mouth. This stops his godfather from going on, though, and Harry lurches to take the opportunity and speak. “Aziraphale-  _ please-  _ listen-“

The Angel holds up a hand and shuts his eyes, breathing once through his nose and settling himself. A moment later he flickers his eyes back to the group, flitting between the three of them and seeming to finally realize exactly how sick they each look. 

(Aziraphale  _ knows  _ that children are Crowley’s strong suit. They’d never been his. He  _ loves  _ them, certainly, just as any true Angel was meant to love, but he was too  _ soft.  _ He allowed too much and stopped short just where it mattered. Crowley had a firm hand and a guiding smirk, where Aziraphale had a cup of hot chocolate and a reassuring tone. They balanced each other out well. Though, with not-Crowley concealed within his pocket and unable to voice his own technique, Azirpahale finds himself at a loss. He resolves to let them speak.)

“Aziraphale- they took a student into the Chamber. And- and we think we might know where it is?”

_ Oh. _

This is so much worse than he could’ve imagined. He thought perhaps Harry had heard some parseltongue that not-Crowley hadn’t, or he’d found someone else strung up against a wall. This — and noting Ron’s stark white face, freckles washed out and hands shaking, he thinks he might have an idea of who was taken — is so much worse.

“Who is it?” He asks, taking a step forward and being met with the three glancing at each other, Harry biting his lip and Neville wringing his hands, as a shell shocked Ron looks at them blankly. “Oh, dear…”

“Ginny,” Harry blurts, and Aziraphale takes his one step forward and turns it right back around, a discomforted and horrified turn of his face replacing the basic look of concern he’d held only a moment before. Then, not-Crowley is slithering out of his pocket, the air around him shifting until he’s growing, growing, hitting the ground with a slithering hiss, his skin parting and black clothes replacing scaly exterior.

Crowley, very much humanoid once again, at the same time as Aziraphale, says:

_ “Fuck.”  _

  
  



	8. The Heir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.
> 
> 11,239 words. 24 pages. Essentially, two chapters shoved into one. Now, the final chapter. 
> 
> I cannot believe it has almost been TWO YEARS since this series started! I wanna thank all of you again for your constant support here, it means more than you can imagine. And now I've finished the second book! That's insanity to me. 
> 
> Anyways. I hope more than anything that you enjoy and you're satisfied! :)

“Well!” Crowley announces, clapping his two hands together with a sort of sarcastically joyous expression. He grins, fanged as if he hasn’t quite let go of his scales yet. “Well- Issssn’t that bloody fantassstic! Not to say _I told them so_ but what the hell did they _expect?”_

“Wh- Professor _Crowley?”_ Neville blurts, speaking both for himself and Ron at once, stumbling a step backward in surprise and grasping for grip on a bit of panicked syllable. “How- You-”

Aziraphale just waves an absentminded hand. He turns around squeezes the other into Crowley’s, with a grim look of almost-excitement, leaving the questions hanging in the air like quickly ripening fruit. “No time for explanations, Mr. Longbottom!”

“But-”

Harry thinks back to Hermione’s frozen state. He thinks about Moaning Myrtle’s corpse in Tom Riddle’s diary. He thinks of Ron’s stark white face, and decides to interrupt Neville rather than keep the pointless argument going. Perhaps, some of his reluctance to let Aziraphale answer is out of protectiveness for his godparents as well. 

“How are we going to do this, then?”

“You three-” Aziraphale gestures to each of them in turn, biting his lip with worry when he reaches Ron, who, still shivering, paints an unfortunate picture. “Are going to come with us and show us where you believe The Chamber to be.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Crowley continues, head bobbing. “I’ll take care of the snake, and you three can go with A’zira in getting Ginny out. _If_ you want to stay. This might be - er - dangerous, probably, I dunno-”

It’s unanimous. All of them nod their heads yes. Crowley, though inclined to keep each of them safe above everything else, can’t stifle his grin. 

“I’m not leaving my sister down there, sir. I’m _not.”_

Neither the Angel nor Demon have ever been in the business of trying to keep siblings from each other. Children from friends. They understand the keen loss of a better half all too well — no matter how long they’d gone on denying that feeling of separation regardless. They share a poignant glance, heavy, but clear and identical. 

Aziraphale nods now at Ron as he leans over, plucking up Harry’s invisibility cloak and sending it away with a snap of his fingers. Then, with a calm, collected voice: 

“Of course, Mr. Weasley. _Now_. where did you three say The Chamber was?”

The group of five soon find themselves marching along the halls of an empty Hogwarts, steps reverberating off the walls, the emptiness of the building stark and clear. Gone is the laughter and discussion, no students setting off spells and pranks, no Fred and George throwing fireworks and potions about. The only upside to the situation is that no one is around to try and arrest Crowley. And quickly fail to.

As they grow closer and closer to Myrtle’s restroom, the floor reflects the evening candlelight, their faces displayed in the murky water flooding the grounds below them in a way that might’ve been a bit funny, if a child wasn’t about to be killed. Semantics, truly. By the time they enter, it’s nearly up to their ankles. Myrtle sits poised on a toilet tank, moaning bitterly in monosyllabic complaint. 

“Oh?” She murmurs as they enter, flowing through a bathroom door and twisting her neck to face them. She brushes her watery hair out of her glasses shyly. “Who’s there?”

“Just us,” Crowley says, before flicking his hand toward the group and sighing. “A bunch of people wondering just how it was you _died.”_

“Hmph. _You two.”_ Seeming to grow distraught at the sight of Ron and Harry, she gives them a halfhearted warble. Aziraphale and Crowley, thinking she might’ve been talking to them, look a bit affronted. ”Come to make fun of me?”

At this, and realizing she’d been talking to the two boys, not the two eldritch-inclined beings in the room- Aziraphale throws a glance to his side. Harry ignores it, favoring instead to step forward and asking her a question. “Myrtle, what killed you?”

Her entire demeanor changes at once, her eyes lighting up and an eager smile flitting upon her face. She looks as if someone’s asked to give her a few thousand galleons, and Harry cringes at the sudden, palpable excitement. If she’d lived long enough, then Crowley had no doubts that she would’ve thought of herself as quite _goth._ Now, instead of the bedraggled, miserable look she’d just held, she seems practically radiant.

"Ooooh, it was _dreadful_ ," she moans, a miserable specter, relishing every moment of her woeful tale. "It happened right in here. I died in this very stall.” She pouts, then wails, then moans as she settles back onto the lip of the wooden stall nearest to her. This cycle of noise repeats before she settles. “I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny.”

She hisses, a wet gurgling noise crawling from her chest as she attempts to recreate the sound, appearing eerily familiar to a language only kept by two of the room’s inhabitants. “A different language, I think it must have been.”She shrugs. “Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his _own_ toilet, and then-” 

There’s a moment of silence as she swells up with wide, tearful eyes and a shuddering pout, head hung, and a proud air to her story, "I died."

"How?" Harry asks quickly before she can continue sobbing.

"No idea," she whispers back in quick succession, hurrying to continue with the gossip. "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away..." She looks faintly at Harry, eyes glazed with something like woeful adoration. "And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses."

"The eyes-” Crowley demands, “-Where’d you see the eyesss?”

"Somewhere there," She says, flipping a hand vaguely toward the sink across from them, unenthusiastic now that the woe-filled end of her tale has concluded.

Their group hurries over, twisting faucets and climbing onto sinks, inspecting the ceiling, floor, taps, and water all the same. There’s no sign of anything till Harry notices a tiny snake carved crudely into the faucet on the far left, turning it on to find that nothing comes out.

“That one’s never worked,” Myrtle adds brightly, floating somewhere along the side and watching them all curiously.

“Harry,” Ron mutters, “say something in parseltongue!”

“What?” He blinks. “Oh- the snake!”

Harry hisses, receiving a proud smile from Crowley when perfectly fluent parseltongue comes out. A moment later, the sinks begin to glow with an eerie sort of light, starting to fall into the ground and reveal an empty, jagged hole in the middle, just big enough for an oversized snake to slither out of and claim a few victims with.

“Let me,” Aziraphale says. If one was to look close enough, they’d feel something just left of human coming from him, a feeling of feathers and the weightlessness of air. He steps toward the hole with a surety to his step, glancing once back at Crowley with a pleasant smile. “I’ll call out once it’s safe.”

Crowley nods - tucking his sunglasses away with darkness to conceal his eye color, adjusting rapidly. “Good luck, then,” says the serpent, with a half-grin, an aborted step forward. Aziraphale spends his last moment taking a step back and shooting them a salute before he’s falling back and down. There’s a noise like whooshing feathers and whistling air, and the Angel is gone.

For a moment, everyone holds their breath. Then, with the disconcerting noise of crushing bones, a voice calls back up.

“It’s safe!” Aziraphale shouts, before letting out a noise of distaste. If envisioned, one would probably see home wringing his hands, taking a few steps back, and conjuring up a miracle or two to dispel an awful scent. “You’d better all go at once- Crowley, dear, you in front, if you would?” The unspoken “For Christ’s sake, something really is disgusting down here and it isn’t just the customer service,” is nearly palpable. 

“Er- sure.” The Demon shuffles toward the hole and peers down with a wide grimace. His hips lock, and he straightens upward, huffing. “You alright down there, A’zira?”

“Just- _Heavens -_ Just tickety boo, love!”

Electing to ignore the tail end of the sentence, Crowley turns back to the students behind him.

“As soon as I jump -- and I mean _as sssoon as I jump --_ You all do too.” The hand he waves at them and the look on his face are enough to convince them -- everyone nods. “Got it? Good. _Good._ I don’t want to see anyone a _second_ late.”

And then- with a flourish and a twist, altogether too snakelike to be anything so unimportant as _human --_ Crowley jerks to the side, slipping feet-first in the hole, followed immediately by three screaming students and a whistle of the wind at a pitch to match.

It’s like rushing down the gullet of a very large beast. There are pipes filled with slime in all directions, whistling past, none quite as large as the one they hurtle through. Crowley takes the brunt of the air as it hits him, great feathers of black and silver encasing the students behind him in such a way where it seems to be almost only a trick of the light. It seems as if there’s no end to their descent. Echoes of gurgling water, plant growth, and centuries passed reverberate about. Despite the fear of falling and tumbling in the air, it’s a peaceful feeling. Time seems to slow, each year passed another few bricks they’re tossed against. Then, just as hope of stopping seems to end, Crowley slams a hand into the wall and sends them to a stop.

“Sorry!” shouts each of the boys at once, as their knees and legs become a tangled lump that slam into Crowley’s back. He lets out an _oof,_ going falling the last few feet and out of the pipe ungracefully.

Outside of the pipe, below Aziraphale and below the slimy, dirty walls, is a veritable field of bones. They crunch as the Angel crosses over to their group, snapping and crackling, of all sizes and appearing to belong to all manner of animals. With a pitying look, he leans over and plucks one up off the ground. 

“Let there be light!” He swirls about to look at the full extent of the cave as a massive, ceiling-bulb-type light erupts from the ceiling above. This only really seems to startle Neville and Ron, with Harry and Crowley already standing up and out of the pipe and bones. “Oh- dear, it really is _disgusting_ isn’t it…”

“Nothing Hell hasn’t tossed out,” responds the Demon, unimpressed. He kicks a spine then turns, gesturing for the last two inhabitants of the pipe to enter. “You two - ngk - you coming or not?”

Neville blinks. “Whu- but- Professor Fell just-”

“Best not to question it,” Harry explains quickly with a shrug, extending a hand and helping Ron to tumble out, Neville following quickly behind. “Look-”

He throws a hand out and gestures to the wall opposite. Aziraphale has already begun to peer past it, the great light in the ceiling following him obediently. 

It doesn’t take long for Ron to recover from the shock of everything. Now, finally getting back to his sister, his horror makes way for more anger. “Let’s go,” he says, low in his throat, looking as if he’s about to fistfight a basilisk without a worry. Crowley admires the determination but meets Ron’s advancement by blocking him, hands on hips and hair shifting in the odd wind of the space.

“Nope,” he says, popping the P ostentatiously. “You’re all ssstuck behind _me,_ Weasley.”He throws an arm out into the empty blackness behind him. “There’s a giant, insane murderous snake back there. So let’s not be going _oh jolly good_ at the idea of chasing after it, whether it’s got your sister or not.”

Something both genuinely relieved and falsely irritated passes over the boy’s face. He gulps -- it’s clear, to Crowley, that he’s terrified, both for himself, but for his friends and family as well -- and nearly walks into Aziraphale. The Angel, ending their line, ushers him into place so they can start forward. His inexplicable light tails them forward as they twist round the bend. 

“Professor-“ Ron cuts himself off with something akin to a whimper, swallowed by the tunnel. “-Professor, there’s something up there…”

“Er- yeah.“ Crowley strains to listen ahead, and, when finding it utterly silent, he takes another step forward to look into the room. It’s a huge, empty area, filled with twisting, winding pathways of skin. Off colored white, winding, dry, decomposing. It looks to be years old, ancient with the dying remains of the sheds before it still lying beneath. “It’s not the snake.”

“It’s still- gross!” Neville kicks at the nearest corner and reaches for his wand with a grimace as if he can expel the scent and creeping sense of unease with a wave of his hand. 

They make their way through the room. After about ten minutes of grimacing, avoiding, and shouting at the creme colored serpent remains before them, the silence is finally broken by one particularly guilty voice.

“I’m not this bad, am I, Angel?” Crowley whines, as a particularly bad twist in the shed tears, his foot going straight through it and a scowl following it.

“Not truly, dear. No worse than the rest of us.” 

Angels, unlike Demons, did not pride themselves in being vain enough to care for their wings. That didn’t mean that those rare days they shed their feathers 

“I expect that’s it, then” interrupts Ron. He looks up to the towering wall, lit up with Aziraphale’s light in a way that suggests it’s struggling to stay lit at all. Elegant serpentine figures carve their way into the stone, glittering emeralds sunken into their eyes and seeming to stare at everyone about, poised to strike and slither away before you can blink. “How d’you reckon we open it?”

The great, glistening eyes seem to erupt with life when addressed. Seeing as he’s the only one with any kinship to the things - Crowley takes a step forward. He slides one palm across the scales and observes, silent. With a whisper of quiet, sharp speech, the snakes shift apart, a great rumbling noise coming forth as the walls open and drag apart from each other. 

“Like that,” Harry answers dryly. He takes a step forward, now shaking nearly as hard as Ron and Neville, both out of excitement and fear. 

The absence of a gateway reveals a long, dimly lit pathway, lined with great, towering pillars carved with more serpents and glistening wetly. The odd, green light of the room swallows Aziraphale’s, shuddering briefly before it goes, quite suddenly, out. At the edge of the Chamber sits a huge, intricately carved statue of a man’s face. His beard stripes the ground, his angry, blind eyes staring down at their group with great disappointment and malice as if to tell them that they _do not belong there._ There, at the foot of the ancient carving, lies a shock of bright, fiery red hair.

“Ginny.” Ron lets out a gasp and starts to run to her with a full sprint. _“Ginny!”_

Crowley plants himself firmly in front of the boy before he can get far. For a moment, all of Ron’s rage is directed entirely to the Demon — but he’s quickly deterred. 

“Ron-” Harry, running up behind him, plants a hand on his arm. “D’you really think you can fight a basilisk alone?”

“I’m the one that can _talk to it,”_ Crowley remarks, with a hint of annoyance. He looks the redhead in the eyes with a firm, knowing look. “I promissse you that you’ll have your sister back soon. Just let me _handle this.”_

Ron, distraught, heavily breathing, looks back to Harry for confidence. He’s given a confident nod from the bespectacled child, moving his hand away. Neville, too, still standing around Aziraphale, shifts nervously at the thought of tackling a basilisk head-on. Crowley puts a gentle hand to Ron’s side and steers him to the side, face softening with a bitter hiss. 

“Just let me go first. That’ssss all.”

After a pregnant pause, Ron gives him another look. Crowley lets out a sigh and straightens, brushing off the front of his clothes and striding quickly toward Ginny, as fast as he can without pulling into a hasty sprint just as Ron had. He reaches her in a matter of moments, dropping to a crouch and lifting her onto her back, pressing a shivering hand to her pulse and nodding. She’s cold, white as a sheet, hair, and freckles a bright contrast between the rest of her skin and the filthy ground below her, but alive. 

“She won’t _wake.”_

“Like Heaven she won’t,” Crowley mutters, before realizing the voice had been a foreign one. He twists his head about so quickly he looks as if he’s gotten whiplash, eyes narrowingly as he gently lowers the girl to the ground. 

“Tom- Tom Riddle?”

Everyone looks at Harry, now, when he talks, dark face going ashen. His eyes widen as he drifts closer, ignoring the warningly concerned look Crowley and Aziraphale shoot him. This new boy is tall, handsome, thin with dark black hair and eyes nearly as snakelike as Crowley -- though no one would be so insulting as to compare his eyes to anyone else’s. 

Riddle’s appearance is frosted over. As if looking at someone through a frosty winter windowpane, he’s fuzzy at the edges, blurred, twitching a bit where he should be solid. It lends an eerie air to him. As if he’s tape being reversed, and spun, and sped up until erring on the side of unrecognizable. 

“She’s still alive.”

His lips quirk with a brief smile, ignoring the rest of the group and staring at Harry as if he’s a particularly rare slice of meat. “But only barely.”

“Are you a ghost?” Harry asks with uncertainty. 

Aziraphale happens to speak at the same time. “Harry, who is this?” 

Crowley leans back over and ignores the rest of them. He carries Ginny into his arms, holding her gently against his folded knees and searching her face, worry and protectiveness clear. Ginny isn’t his child — not ever in the way Harry is — but he’s just as determined to help her as he would be for his godson. Tom’s eyes flicker between the Demon and the girl, and his smile lengthens. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you know,” says the phantom of a boy. He creeps closer on floaty steps. "For the chance to see you. To speak to you."

“How did she get like this?” asks Ron now. Despite Riddle’s fixation on Harry, he turns, cocking his head and switching to an amused expression at Ron’s own furious one. “Why is she like that?”

"Well, that's an interesting question.” Riddle points at them like an enigmatic schoolteacher, "And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible _stranger_."

"What are you talking about?" Neville, who had been otherwise clueless to Harry’s brief stint with the book, glares. He’s sweating. Sweating, and nervous, and smelling of fear, but he takes a quick step forward before his head can get the best of him. Aziraphale accompanies him, the whole group narrowing in on the one outlier in the room. 

"The diary," Riddle responds. “My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her _pitiful_ worries and woes - how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how -” He lets out a mirthless chuckle “-how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her…”

As he speaks, his eyes never once leave Harry’s face— white with guilt, stricken— with that same, hungry look from before. 

"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl. But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, _Tom_ …” he sneers, voice turning shrill and whiny as he mocks the younger girl, overtly cruel and uncaring for it. “I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket ..."

Riddle gives out a real, shrill laugh now, one that doesn’t suit his face or voice but very much matches his smile. Aziraphale takes theis moment and moves - exchanging arms with Crowley, nodding to the Demon as he hands Ginny to the Angel. Then, before anyone can blink, he’s returned to the other children of the group, gearing up to run. Ron, green in the face, waits for Riddle to stop laughing before he starts to shout again. 

“What the hell are you on about?” 

"Haven't you guessed yet?” Riddle whispers, eyes still stuck on Harry despite Ron having been the only person to talk. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

There’s a moment's pause — no one seems able to speak — then he continues.

“She strangled the school roosters.” He smiles. “She daubed threatening messages on the walls.” That smile grows. “She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat."

“Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became. Dear Tom," he begins to recite, ignoring the dawning horror on the faces around him, biting his lip with a pitying look, “I think I'm losing my _memory_ . There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear _Tom_ , l can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got _paint_ all down my front. Dear Tom, _Percy_ keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom-“

 _“Enough!”_ Shouts Crowley roughly, starting to walk all too quickly forward, advancing with hunched shoulders and grit teeth, his anger palpable. “Enough, you slimy little _freak!_ You can harass us all you want as soon as you let out the great big bloody snake and I _kill it!”_

Riddle tries for a smile. It fails, slipping to the side and into a snarl. 

“I had no idea,” he murmurs through grit teeth in a gentle, pitying tone, speaking to the dog he’s about to kick. “That Harry Potter had found himself a set of replacement parents. I’ve always wondered- how is it that Harry - a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent - managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?”

“How did you-” He looks back to Harry once more, tucking his hands behind his back and smirking smugly. “-escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

"Why do you care how I escaped?" Harry snaps angrily before anyone else can ponder. "Voldemort was after your time.”

This prompts a silvery laugh from the specter. Riddle steps backward and raises a hand, tracing the air with his fingertips and expelling golden light from their ends. 

“Voldemort,” he whispers, the beginnings of letters appearing in the sparks he builds, “Is my past, present, and future.”

The letters, stark in the air, glittering with eerie, golden light to contrast against the eerie green light of the cavernous room, read:

_Tom Marvolo Riddle._

He waves his hand with a mutter of spell work and a smile, and the letters twist and warp, dancing about to read:

_I am Lord Voldemort._

"You see?" he whispers. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. Do you think I was going to use my filthy _Muggle_ father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry - I fashioned myself a new name-”

_“You.”_

The word is sour with so much acidic poison that it almost sounds more like someone spitting than a real utterance. Aziraphale — arms filled with a child, dying, his hair haloed with a light brighter than any in the room and more ancient still, blue eyes brimming with fury and rage more intense than anything, forcing Tom a step back-

“I missed you, last year,” he admits pleasantly, too many eyes and too much light burning forth where he steps, advancing on the boy with a silent, gentle sort of movement, nonthreatening till you looked just close enough and caught a glimpse of many, shuddering golden pieces of one, minuscule whole.

“We came a moment late. _Oh-“_ he gasps, delighted, mouth half opened to a toothy smile “-we somehow managed to miss your great escape, even. But now- now, my _dear_ child- I must admit I thought you might be more impressive.”

Tom doesn’t look _frightened._ Aziraphale isn’t sure he can. He’s certainly a bit of a freak against God. Regardless of _fear-_ he takes a step back, facade slipping. The pale of his skin sits strikingly against his robes, his edges fizzling faster. 

“It’s clear as day that the only thing that you are, _Lord Voldemort, is_ an impotent _child.”_

Several things happen, all at once.

There’s a great, hideous noise from Crowley, something between a shriek and a hiss. There’s a shifting of stone and the sound of water sloshing away, a larger, more intense hiss than before, the noise of scales shifting across the stone. Tom’s eyes glitter as his basilisk slips forward, the great, jagged maw of Salazar Slytherin opening to expose mile after mile of snaking, glistening green expanse. Harry, Neville and Ron suddenly find themselves standing behind Aziraphale in the back of the room, missing the moment that skin warps, flensing, pushing outward and up as Crowley shifts into the form of a snake more brilliant than the other in the room. 

“Turn” Aziraphale instructs. Each of them do so, concealed by a sudden cover of shivering white feathers. Wings of alabaster and white hang low against their heads, great, shining plumage like branches of a tree. Their eyes are quickly averted from something angry, violent, loud, the sound of a scream silent and broken and _raw._

They aren’t there to see the movement that ensues. Aziraphale doesn’t watch either — he’s a fighter, a principality, made for battle and to kill and to fell and to destroy — but he’s never really _been_ any of that — and the violence that now begins is one that only Crowley can truly relish in.

The Demon in question presses his form to a size it hasn’t inhabited in millennia, since that first hour of understanding what he had become. The flashes of red and gold that bounce off of Aziraphale’s feathers and onto the shining, wet ground, are enough to show the group exactly how mountainous their professor and protector has become. 

Tom’s face _finally_ shifts — giving Crowley a large amount of pleasure to see — as he screams at his own serpent to advance. It’s fang-filled and distended mouth, ruined over years kept isolated inside a cramped, dour cavern, careens to Crowley in a move far too erratic to be effective. 

The Demon dodges it, sending it careening into a massive, serpentine pillar and relishing in the ear-piercing scream it announces itself with. It’s huge, expansive, ancient, thousands of years old, but _never_ near the age or sense of being that Crowley has become. Insanity has encompassed it. 

Even as Crowley hisses protests and orders, it refuses to listen, each movement a desperate attempt to launch itself into Aziraphale’s huddle, trying to rip at and tear the Angel and his children to shreds. Crowley knows better — his Angel is more than capable of protecting himself — but furiously hard all the same. 

It lunges at his side and bites down on air. Crowley merely bends, picks it up by its spine, and throws it against the wall. The room shudders, stones falling down and raining over the two massive beasts that overflow its bulk. Crowley takes no pleasure in the fight — neither does the thing, the basilisk, so consumed by insanity. It’s been warped in mind and body, driven mad, form destroyed and broken in hideous, nauseating ways after so long shoved to slumber under the school. 

He’d have much more pity for it, though, if it hadn’t gotten everyone into so much _trouble_.

 _“Kill,”_ it screams, as Crowley tears through its stomach and slams it to the ground, his own heavy weight matching its own. _“Rip,”_ it begs as he encases its head entirely in his jaw, almost pleading, almost asking for release. He divulges the request and hopes that the children can’t see, slicing it’s malformed skull from its body and letting it’s form fall, terribly, to the ground.

As if to end the world, the cavern crumbles, shakes, then goes, terribly, horribly, silent.

Crowley’s body shrinks. The crackling of bone against sinew fills the room, a noise like an eruption as he folds. He shivers as he returns, pupils dilating as they adjust to returning back to a semblance of humanity once again. 

Suddenly — and with a sharp twist of pain — a patch of scarlet against his side makes itself known. It’s enough that Crowley hisses, clamping a hand over it and grimacing as Tom starts to laugh. 

“You’re going to die,” whispers an echo of Voldemort, shaking his head and walking nearer. He’s grasping straws now, chest heaving, weaving in and out of existence. The rage he feels fills the air, along with a horrible, cold, sense of emptiness, something just left of excitement pouring out as Crowley stares down at his own wounded side. He only smiles. “You’re dead. Dead, creature… and alone.”

And, suddenly, there’s a book that had once been on the floor in Crowley's hand, finding it’s lithe binding relocated in an instant, quite confused and reflected in its spectral counterpart’s expression. Tom Riddle, with dawning horror, lurches. The book does the same, though stays firmly in a grip bordering on desperate. Crowley smiles wider, wickeder, as Tom falters.

“You’ve forgotten,” utters a Demon with a quirked nod of its head, and a silver-tongued smile. “Not everything is _mortal.”_

He snaps his fingers and fire follows. The book— and how _had_ that fire been its downfall, it thinks, before it’s a pile of ash— drops out of Crowley’s hands and to the floor. Voldemort, body erupting, slams onto his knees, a hand reaching for Crowley as he gurgles. One last whisper of words, caught in a long-dead corpse, throat filled with ink. Crowley doesn’t even stay to listen. He’s giddy enough as is. There had been no variants that hellfire would work on the _thing -_ he’d never seen anything like it. A particularly ancient bit of magic, and he’s lucky that anything could’ve killed it. 

He kicks the book away and trudges off, ignoring the massive serpentine corpse behind him and walking instead toward the bundle of feather and Angel before him. 

“Hey.” Aziraphale turns in an instant, wings shivering back into an opposite plane, hidden away, and throws a hug about Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley looks at the children — one, two, three, and four with Ginny lying gently on the ground — and shuts his eyes, leaning into the hug.

“Oh dear,” remarks Aziraphale with a sudden sharp intake of breath, a hand coming down to press into Crowley’s side and the gnarled expanse of broken skin. “Oh- oh dear, Crowley, why didn’t you heal this?” 

“Well- ngk -“ With a reluctant ook, he pulls from the hug, already regretting the decision, wincing when Aziraphale tries to come closer again. He seizes up in height and glares at his side, letting out a groan of discomfort as the skin starts to knit itself back together. Aziraphale comes forward to inspect the healed area, but Crowley holds up a hand, stopping him short. “Angel- later- the girl-“

As they turn, their worry for each other’s well being pivots and re-centers, falling entirely on the tiny eleven-year-old on the floor, with rasping breath and a shallow heartbeat. Ron has taken Ginny’s hand in a death grip, his other palm slick with sweat, and curled about Neville’s robes. He sits with Ginny’s head in his lap, steadily glaring at her as if it’ll wake her up.

Ginny coughs. 

Her brother jerks backward in surprise, letting out a whoop of laughter when she starts to bat her eyelashes open. Thankfully, he quiets down as his sister starts to rise, her eyes widening with panic, looking around the room and at the people around her with a feverishly pale face. Aziraphale is quick to come back to her side, coaxing her up with a gentle hand and leading her off the dirty ground. The moment she’s balanced and standing, she turns, throwing her arms around Ron with a breathless sob, a hug that he returns with eyes shut against tears of his own. 

“Oh- Ron- I’m- I’m so sorry-” she sobs breathlessly, clutching to his back, the taller boy cupping the back of her head, protecting her from a threat that has already been destroyed, “I- I had no idea what I was doing- I- I never would’ve- please-“

“Ginny,” he whispers, “Ginny, it’s ok.”

“Tom’s gone,” Crowley says, as he follows Aziraphale over. Harry looks up to his godfather with a look of admiration -- quickly turning to surprise, then adamant worry, when he sees the shock of scarlet blood slick on his arms and side. 

“What the hell!” He moves over and launches himself into a hug with the Demon, glaring up at him as Crowley pulls him in by his shoulders.

“I’m- Harry, I’m fine, ngk-” The boy gives a protest, gesturing to the healed wound “-I’ve fought in wars before, this isn’t bad, it’s _healed_.” 

Crowley sends Harry a reassuring -- albeit tricky -- smile, and is sent a bit lip and a careful nod in response. Sometimes, he forgets that his little Chosen One is all too used to losing people. He clutches him tighter to his chest and nods.

After Ginny starts to calm some, her endless sobs turning to restless hiccups -- her panic still enough to fill the entire room by far -- Aziraphale starts to lead their group from the room. Neville, Ron, and Harry all stand in the middle with Ginny, catching her up on what she’d missed and how they’d destroyed her manipulator. It seems to do very little to quell her worries, but Ron and she have become nigh inseparable. Then, soon enough, they find themselves at the lip of the girl’s bathroom tunell again, surrounded by bones and frigid air.

“Do we have to-” Neville gulps. “Do we have to climb _up_ that? I- I’m not very athletic.”

Aziraphale gives him a soft smile. “No, dear child, I’m not going to make you slog your way through _that_ again. Hold onto my hand,” Harry, Neville, and Ron attach themselves to Aziraphale’s arm in a lopsided pile of human and ethereal. Crowley takes Ginny’s, their hair blending in as he hauls her up into a one-armed carry like one might hold a small child, and not one of eleven. She seems happy enough with this, letting out a warbling laugh. There are no explanations -- only promised secrets -- when the two unfurl pairs of magnificent wings from their backs. There isn’t any answer to why Crowley seems to have two extra pairs to unfurl, either. There isn't any answer as to how, next, the two launch into flight.

A beautiful sense of weightlessness hits the passengers of the feathery liftoff. It feels like clouds and air, lighter than anything as they go up, up, up the pipe. The chilled air whips through everyone’s hair, making Ginny laugh as her long locks of red braid messily behind her, mingling with Crowley’s matching set in the dark. 

It’s like an amusement park ride. Fast, thrilling, best spent with family, and over entirely too soon. The entire group falls onto the wet, half-flooded tiles of Myrtle’s abode, a panicked shriek falling from her lips as she darts out of the way of their landing. 

“You’re- you’re alive,” she says breathlessly after a moment of collection of self.

“No need to sound so bloody disappointed,” Harry says, grimly, as he begins to wipe grime and dirt off his glasses. He ignores her and starts toward the door, the rest of their group following. Before he can leave, though, she swoops right into the space in front of him.

"Oh, _well_ ... I'd just been _thinking_... if you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet," she says shyly, blushing a bright silver hair from her face and then giggling cheerily as she flies off. 

“That’s quite enough of that,” says Aziraphale, who had been watching the proceedings, as he presses a gentle hand to Harry’s back. Then, addressing the entire group, he turns. “Are you all quite alright?”

“I just got dragged up a pipe by my professor with wings,” Neville says in reverent awe. “I just-“

“Bloody hell,” interrupts Ron, his rather shell shocked face finally melting. He looks as if Crowley and Aziraphale have just hung the stars -- and one of them had. “How did you _do that?”_

Crowley, shaking grime off his wings and letting out a pitiful whine at the idea of cleaning them, slides the feathers back where no one can quite see them. “Do what?” He asks innocently, with a grumble at the edge of his tone. “We climbed.”

“Climbed- _climbed?”_ Ron’s shaken face is enough to send Harry into peals of surprised laughter. 

“We should do that more often,” he suggests. Aziraphale and Crowley immediately balk -- Harry laughs harder.

It seems that, despite the bit of laughter, no one child yet finds themself recovered from what had just happened. This leads Aziraphale and Crowley to start prodding them forward, across the room and out the door, into the hallway and away from the basilisk corpse. 

Crowley -- before he leaves -- whispers a single word to the now-closed chamber of secrets. Someone who might’ve been listening would’ve heard nothing but nonsensical hisses. Anyone who had their wits about them might’ve heard something akin to a funeral rite.

He leaves all the same.

Crowley takes the head, now, directing them all to Dumbledore’s office. Ginny, the only one to never see it, marvels as the gargoyles lip away, revealing a circle of unending stairs. She follows, as each other person steps onto them, looking up to the ceiling and where the office begins. Shouts and expletives can be heard clearly from within, growing even louder as Crowley pushes open the door.

For a moment, there’s silence, as Aziraphale, Crowley, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Ginny stands there, covered in a variety of sewage, slime -- and in Crowley, Ginny, Harry and Aziraphale's case -- blood. Then, someone screams.

_“Ginny!”_

Molly, who had been crying by the fireplace, leaps up and runs to her children, followed closely by Arthur. They yank Ron and Ginny into their arms with noises of pure relief, their faces torn between anguish and adoration. The two children are quick to hug back, sinking down as the weight of the night fully sinks in.

The rest of the group, though, are fixed with a piercing gaze from Albus and an exuberant one from Minerval. She stands from her spot at Albus’s desk, smiling at their group and very much trying to hide it, face seeming to flip through each of the six stages of grief at once.

“You-” She looks around and takes in a breath as sharp as a knife, eyes narrowing, “Is that blood- _oh,_ Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom- you-“

Seeming to find her own rambling pointless, she sighs. Then, with a smile, she resumes. “Welcome back, Anthony.”

The man in question fixes her with a smile and shakes her hand. “The pleasures are all mine, Minerva. Er- you’ve got a… corpse. In your basement.”

“And a Chamber Of Secrets in your basement,” pipes Neville dreamily, looking close to passing out. 

Then, abruptly, Harry and Neville are encased in a strong-armed hug from Molly, bright, twin squeaks escaping the both of them. She looks up to Crowley and Aziraphale with eyes still brimming with tears, a silent exchange of thanks going between them as she looks at them.

“You saved her!” She warbles, trying to get her voice back under control. “Who- how did you-“

“Yes, I think we’d all like to know that,” Minerva says weakly in response, interrupting Molly before she can burst into distraught sobbing again.

Ron and Ginny and Neville and Harry — each of them together, thinking of wings and screaming and ink and fangs and blood and the nonsensical things that had happened to get them out alive, the things that couldn’t really be explained without arousing too much suspicion — all look up at Crowley and Aziraphale, giving them their agency to speak and reveal what they want. It’s a heartwarming appeal, to see that they trust their professors and guardians so much. Even Neville, relatively unaware of what Aziraphale and Crowley could do, looks at them with the utmost trust. 

“I think,” begins the Angel of the two, before turning to nod at Crowley with a fond, giddy sort of smile. “That’s a story we can discuss later.”

“Very well.” Minerva, sounding airy -- as if the lack of explanation barely phases her anymore -- nods. Then, her face gnarls and hardens into a scowl. “But may I ask- who was it that opened the Chamber for its use in the _first place?”_

Ginny goes a bright white, swallowing, hard, and stiffening so visibly in her parent’s embrace that they frown. Her vague nausea turns to fully blown fright, her eyes turning to Crowley and Aziraphale to help her. 

Crowley comes prepared. He procures a small, plain black notebook from his back pocket. The notebook, still reeling from the discovery that _hellfire_ can destroy its bit of magic, fights against Crowley’s hold. He tugs it into submission and relishes in the feeling of ash staining his fingers.

“This,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley hands the book over to his delicate hands — hands that, despite the age and interest of the book, do nothing but manhandle it — “is a very powerful remnant of Voldemort himself.”

“Wh- what’s _that?”_ Molly asks in a stunned voice, standing quite abruptly and twisting from worried to enraged, so utterly volatile that it forces Aziraphale to take a step back. “You know who?”

“Yes, my dear woman,” Aziraphale says gravely. “It enchanted Mrs. Weasley here-” he points to Ginny with a knowing look “-controlling her. He opened the Chamber and led the snake through _her_ body - none of it was anything she was conscious of.”

The relief Ginny seems to feel at the confirmation of her suspicions makes her knees buckle. She falls to the ground with a sniffle, then a wail, until shes starting to sob against her father’s shoulder once again.

And all at once, it’s so obvious again. They’re only children. They’re only children, yet one of them sat in an ancient sewage system and was made to die. They’re only children, and one of them has been targeted by a wizard with the power and the prejudice to kill and split themselves into pieces, destroyed. They cry, and they shake, and they wonder and they are curious. And, they are more vulnerable than they allow themselves to appear. Harry is a prime example. So _quiet._ So accepting of those who might hurt him, until someone else is willing to help him. He’d had laid his life out for the Dursley’s if he’d been allowed to remain there. Now, watching him stand strong and confident in his godparents -- confident enough to ask them for help in such an incredible way -- the two guardians are proud. 

Albus accepts the book from Aziraphale with a nod of thanks, flipping through a page or two and quirking his lips into a smile when they begin to crumble into dust in his hands. When he turns to address the room once more, it’s with an air of satisfaction. 

"Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts.” He sets the bundle on the table and moves closer, eyes sharp as ever. “He disappeared after leaving school -- traveling far and wide. He sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome boy who was once Head Boy here."

"But, Ginny," Arthur demands angrily. "How did he hurt our _Ginny?_ How did he- through that _journal?”_

"His d-diary" she moans. "I've b-been writing in it, and he's been w-writing back all year--"

"Ginny!" Says her father, flabbergasted, eyes wide and face white. "Haven't I taught you anything? What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain? Why didn't you show the diary to me or your mother? A suspicious object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic!”

"I d-didn't know," she sobs again. "I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it--"

"Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away," Albus interrupts. Arthur, realizing he’d been close to shouting, bites his lip and sighs in acceptance. "This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort." He walks to the door to his office and opens it, gesturing toward it. "Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up," He adds quietly, giving the girl below him a wink of encouragement. "You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still awake. She’s been finishing up the Mandrake draught with Professor Snape-“

“So Hermione’s ok!” Ron says brightly. Crowley, in the background, bristles a little at the thought of Snape touching -- or getting anywhere near -- his plants. 

“There has been _no_ lasting harm done, yes,” Albus responds. “And Minerva- I do believe this calls for a bit of a feast, don’t you?”

“Right.” She gives him a curt nod. Once Ginny and her parents leave the room, she seems to regain her composure, worried, ditzy air turning to one more of an embarrassing strength. “I’ll leave you to this and alert the kitchens.”

As she makes her exit, the room feels much more empty. Although three adults and children both stand in the room, it feels as if a wide chasm has opened. With no more urgency to be had or worry of death to be pondered over, everyone deflates. Albus breaks this with a soft, half-laugh half-sigh. 

“I do believe, that, due to circumstances, you should all be expelled or _fired.”_

Harry, Ron, and Neville seem to have simultaneous aneurysms, followed by an irritated snort of disapproval from Crowley and the start of a strongly worded reply from Aziraphale. 

"Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words," he continues before anyone can start to hex him. Crowley curses him with a _different_ sort of word but listens on _._ "You _all_ will receive Special Awards for Services to the School and…” he drums his fingers on the nearest table for a moment and pretends to think. “Yes- I believe two hundred points to Gryffindor for each student apiece should suffice.”

Ron goes as red as his hair and topples into Neville, the other boy letting out a shriek both at the surprise and the impact. Harry yanks them both up by their sleeves, mouth gaping and blushing a furious dark brown. It’s a bit funny, really -- it’s almost as if he’s taken Hermione’s place as the sensible one, to the naked eye, and to anyone who didn’t know Harry and Hermione was as reckless as Ron was.

“Better not give me an’ Aziraphale any awards,” Crowley drawls. “Or- er- keep us on school records. Or acknowledge us at all.”

“Yes- I do really think that might be best for all of us,” says Aziraphale, looking once to Crowley then back to Albus with a fidgety sort of demeanor. “We- er- hm. Yes, I do think anonymity would be best.”

“Very well. Mr. Weasley- Mr. Longbottom- If you’d be so kind as to join the others in the infirmary? I’d like to speak to Harry and his guardians alone, for a moment.”

The two walk out without protest, still looking shocked into silence. They break into sudden whispers as soon as the door shuts on them, likely gasping in wonder at their avoiding of being expelled. This leaves Crowley, Aziraphale, and Harry together protectively arranged about each other, all stained with at least a bit of dried blood and grime. Crowley plants a hand on the desk nearest and stares. 

“So, you all met Tom. I imagine he was most interested in you, Harry.” 

“Yes.” Harry starts to fiddle with the edge of his robe, taking a step forward. “Headmaster- how am I so similar to him? The parseltongue… and the hat said I could’ve been a Slytherin…”

"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry," Albus responds calmly, in a matter that Crowley and Aziraphale allow, "because Lord Voldemort - who is the last remaining ancestor of Salazar Slytherin - can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I'm sure, just as he never intended to destroy himself in the process…”

“So… I should be Slytherin, then,” Harry concludes quietly. He sounds so painfully sad over the fact, and Crowley bristles, taking initiative at once— he will not allow self-deprecation when the breed isn’t his own, thank you very _much._

“Alright- enough of that,” demands the Demon, he plants himself next to Harry and crouches with a dramatic groan. “Just because someone’s a Slytherin doesn’t make them bad.”

“A passion for pride and ambition, sure,” Aziraphale adds eagerly. “But not evil. The Weasley twins are a fantastic example- I rather wonder if they should’ve been placed in Slytherin over Gryffindor…”

“Don’t let them hear you say that Angel, they’ll have your feathers.”

“The point _is,”_ He continues, ignoring Crowley. “The point is- you are ambitious, and you take pride in what you achieve, but you’re also brave, and fiercely loyal, and you’ve got a bit of a _reckless_ streak.”

He says that word with zest. It’s hard to understand if he’s _excited_ or _worried_ about the fact. 

_“Personally,”_ Crowley interrupts, “as someone who played for two teams and then said bloody _piss off_ to both of them- I think that the whole…” he waves his hands about abstractly, avoiding Albus’s gaze yet clearly addressing him as well, “-one personality trait one house thing is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

“The way that you _chose_ your house, too, demonstrated a remarkable difference between you and Riddle, Harry.” Dumbledore waves a hand to the sorting hat, sitting propped inside its glass case, silent. “Whether you’d chosen Slytherin, Gryffindor, or any other house, you made that choice your own. Riddle had the agency to choose- yet allowed for himself to be sorted.”

Harry, nodding carefully, thankful, takes a moment to let out a yawn. He wipes a hand over his face, forgetting about the slime smeared across it, and grimaces. 

“Now, what I think you need is some food and sleep, Harry. I suggest you go up to your house and rest, while I write to Fudge-“ he looks at Crowley, now, almost apologetic, and the Demon rolls his eyes. “-I do believe pardons and apologies are in order.”

“Uh- _yeah._ You’d better give Harris a top-notch education here, _duh._ Seeing as you all pinned a murder serpent death on the wrong guy.” Harry stifles a laugh, and Crowley stands nonchalantly, gaze averted. 

Of course, in a moment of peace, a bang of a door and a small shriek announces Lucius Malfoy. He strides in with his cane and a tiny form, kicking the thing away and letting his blonde hair fly about wildly. He raises his walking stick and waves it wildly about, mouth trembling and eyes shot with bloody rage. 

“So!” He shouts, trembling, furious and vengeful, “you’ve allowed _him_ back within the school grounds!” His can goes thrown in Crowley’s direction — the Demon only waves. 

“Well, you see, Lucius,” says the headmaster carefully. “When the professor found that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed-“

“And that we had an idea where she _was,”_ Crowley interrupts, taking control of his own story. “I returned. And I killed the bloody basilisk too! You’d ought to be thanking me, you slimy little _dissssgrace_ of a-“

Lucius goes pale — both with an influx of rage and an anxious turn to his breath — and slits his eyes into focused knots of grey, not unlike a snake himself. 

“So you’ve caught the culprit, then? That great oaf you call a groundskeeper, I presume?”

Harry seethes. “Hey- his name is _Hagrid-“_

“Actually, _sir,”_ Aziraphale says proudly before Harry can have himself expelled, “Lord Voldemort _casually_ managed to infiltrate this school and attempt to destroy it from the inside out once again. Crowley, Harry, Ronald, Neville, and I managed to find his final victim just before she perished, making a valiant rescue — Crowley being _quite_ endearing, might I add,” he finishes. The Demon in question makes a sharp grumble and pretends to shine his sunglasses, before sliding an arm across Aziraphale’s back.

Albus plucks the simple black diary from his table and hands it to Lucius to inspect. “How Ginny Weasley happened to find this journal, I’m unsure. But, a clever plan nonetheless. If young Mr. Potter, along with his guardians and friends, had not found the journal, she might have taken all of his blame.”

In the corner, the tiny bundle of skin and fabric begins to gesture meaningfully at the journal and Lucius, before hitting his head with a fist and making pitiful noises. Suddenly, the pitiful thing gains shape and reveals itself to be _Dobby,_ looking as miserable as he does meaningful. He seems to be trying to speak and stay silent all at once, and punishing himself for thinking of both. 

All in a sudden second of though, Harry understands. He turns to Lucius -- with his masklike face, a sneer affixed and frozen against it -- and makes to ask. “Don’t you want to know how Ginny got the book, Mr. Malfoy?”

“How would I know how that stupid little girl-”

“Because-” interrupts Aziraphale, the same realization dawning on him as he remembers the argument that had developed in Flourish and Blotts. “Because you gave it to her, did you not? You slipped it in with her books.”

Lucius shudders for a moment, his eyes going wide and white, panicked. _“Prove it,”_

Then, stamping his cane and twisting on his heels, he shouts. “We’re going, Dobby!”

“Oh- but Lucius- I would advise you not to go giving out any more of Lord Voldemort's old school things. If any more of them find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back to you.” Albus, sounding for once reasonable, glances back to Crowley and Aziraphale and then nods to himself. “He wouldn’t be alone in that pursuit. Yes, I do believe he’d have himself quite a few powerful allies, wouldn’t he?”

Going paler still, Lucius whirls around and slams Dobby down the stairs with the back of his cane, hurrying away and letting his cloak flutter behind him atmospherically. The door nearly slams shut -- he’s too far away already to notice that it hasn’t -- when a foot, clothed in snakeskin-shoes and excessively long socks, stops it.

It creaks back open, far louder than should be possible, and Lucius Malfoy freezes in his tracks. Aziraphale nods pleasantly at Crowley, who moves his foot and allows the Angel to push the door open again by himself, before refocusing his south-of-pleasant gaze on the blood purist below. The elder Malfoy looks just an inch away from hurling slurs, but for some inexplicable, unexplained reason, his mouth stays traitorously shut.

“Apologies, for the interruption, Mr. Malfoy,” Aziraphale says, saccharine, quite pleasant, really, disregarding the absence of humanity in his eyes — of which there are _far too many —_ and the way that his smile slopes up just a bit too far. “But- I don’t believe I can let you and Dobby meander off just yet.”

“Wh- what are you on about,” he stammers back, very slowly taking another step back up the stairs as if possessed. He looks, for once, to be genuinely afraid. Dobby, silent, shivers near the door, completely mute and transfixed. “What are you doing?”

“I would really like, Lucius, if you would remove your cloak, please?”

And- to the surprise of everyone on the staircase — child, Demon, Angel, house elf and purist alike — he draws his shaking hands upward, finding that his fingers are drawn with a magnetic pull to the elaborate golden claps of his cloak. Trembling, and with an aghast gasp of horror — a bit comically terrified, truly — he begins to undo it. 

“Dobby, if you would accept the cloak, then?”

With massive, saucepan eyes, and a face purple as an eggplant, Dobby scampers over, accepting the heavy black fabric from Lucius’s talon-like grasp. Lucius lets out a muted whimper as it passes to the elf, a drop of sweat dribbling down his temple and hitting the floor with an echoing _splat._

He turns, walks out the door, and stiffly leaves the hall. 

Dobby promptly bursts into tears.

“M- master- master has given Dobby his _cloak!_ His precious- his most precious cloak- and- and- Dobby is _free!”_ He races up the stairs and slams into Azirpahale’s lower legs, tugging him in a tiny, but fierce, embrace. Aziraphale returns it — only a little awkward, as he has to bend over to reach him at all — and smiles. 

“You’re quite welcome for that, Dobby,” he says cheerfully. “Dobby, the free elf.” 

The feast that ensues the next morning — at two am, really, the kitchens are much too fast for their own good — is unlike any that Harry had ever seen. 

Everyone runs about in their muggle and wizard pajamas, shouting excitedly and clamoring for purchase on the massive platters of foods arranged about them. Students come from left and right to congratulate Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione —newly un-petrified — on their incredible discovery. Even Justin Finch-Fletchley and his friend apologize for their misunderstanding. 

The true story of what had killed the snake, though, is kept mostly a mystery, whispered between everyone at the head table as they pretend they had no idea who it was that had made the ultimate move to rescue Ginny Weasley. The only one not there, curiously enough, is Lockhart. When asked about it, McGonagall gains a smug air and declines to answer. 

The celebration — like the food — is magnificent. Dumbledore stands and congratulates Gryffindor on their earning of 600 house points, met with such hard slaps on the backs from the rest of the house that Neville, Harry, and Ron find themselves pushed half into the pudding by the time it stops. Everyone who’d accused Harry and Crowley finds themselves eating their words —along with egregious amounts of food.

But, in only a matter of days, it’s time for them to return home. 

Those days, quite unexpectedly, feel like instants. Captured on polaroids and strung up on a wall, snapshots rather than hours, instant and quickly made. Even the cross to the train feels like nothing. Each discussion, laugh and smile feels like it’s cut right out of a photo book, barely enough time to spend on each moment before they’re all boarding the red-throated machine.

Harry pauses in one such moment. His shoes hit the pavement with wet slaps, the coating of rain keeping everything a slick, oversaturated sheen. The sunset above contrasts the bright green of the trees about in a flurry of color, Harry tipping his eyes to the sky and basking in the warmth of the post-storm evening. In all of his time waiting, he finds his friends have already boarded the train, and he finds that he can’t bring himself to mind the silence.

The only thing to snap him from this reverie, basking in what would’ve been a perfectly normal sunset, is a familiarly annoying voice.

“Potter,” says Draco Malfoy, looking intensely uncomfortable as he approaches the other boy, hair slicked back like the ground and face pinched with something akin to an effort not to scowl. “Potter- get your head out of the clouds. I’m trying to talk to you here.”

“Oh?” Harry mumbles, lowering his head and shooting the other boy a dark look. “I didn’t know you commanded my every movement now, _Malfoy._ What do you want?” He snaps, finally turning to address him fully.

The younger Malfoy seems to deflate. “What did you do to my house elf, Potter? He was a rather good one, at that.”

 _“Don’t-”_ Harry takes a deep breath, convincing himself not to hex the other boy. “Dobby’s not yours, you sniveling little blond. He’s a free elf. Besides- I didn’t do anything, Malfoy. Your dad tossed his cloak off and gave it to him.”

“I’m not-“ Malfoy huffs and crosses his arms. “Fine. You cost me my personal servant.” 

Harry moves to _really_ hex him and is only stopped by a tight, jerky nod of the boy’s head, his lips pulled up in a half sneer that seems to be attempting some sort of civility. 

“He wasn’t made for servitude, _anyways._ Perhaps you were right to relieve him of his _duties_. If you can be right about anything,” he adds as a hasty afterthought, looking so intensely uncomfortable it’s painful.

It’s the most bizarre interaction Harry has ever had with Malfoy by far. By some odd twist of fate, he doesn’t seem perfectly aligned with his father. Harry makes to speak — to wonder aloud, to question the idea, to say a thousand words — but Malfoy turns quickly on his heel, saying something insulting to Blaise Zabini and wandering away.

—-

Somewhere, somehow, and in another world, Harry James Potter was likely crying under a bedsheet.

This world was not that one.

In this world, Harry Potter was off practicing quidditch with Adam Young, who had _somehow_ acquired a broomstick for each of The Them, and was quite eager to try it out. He had eaten a few miniature sandwiches throughout the day and had made some lemonade with Mrs. Young, while Mr. Young asked him where his parents were, and went quite red in the face when Adam explained that they were his _god_ parents. He’d been sending letters back and forth between Ron, Hermione, and Neville all summer, getting things like trinkets from vacations and the most endearing little baked good from Neville, who had been trying to learn how to make brownies. 

In this world, he had a _family._

Part of that family is currently sipping tea with a severe-looking deputy headmaster, dressed in the most casual robes they’ve ever seen from her, still making her look regal. Crowley had only just managed to miracle in a rather out of place couch for his living room when she arrived, shoving plants out of the way and making his living room suitable for discussion. Aziraphale, similarly panicked, had summoned five cups of tea, all filled with coffee. Then, realizing his mistake, after he’d taken a sip and promptly spat it back out, he’d summoned up three of tea. 

“So, Minerva, how _have_ you been?”

She smiles warmly to Aziraphale. “I’ve been fine, thank you, Zira. Albus has been having a time of hiring a new professor for the defense against the dark arts position, but I’ve been keeping myself distanced.”

“Oh?” Crowley raises an eyebrow and snickers. “Need any help hiding the body?”

She puts up a good play at being shocked — a hand to her breast, her tea held daintily, affronted — before she breaks into a smile, and Aziraphale laughs at her. _“He_ attacked me first, Anthony. Lockhart’s memory is what has been taken, _not_ his life.”

“Yeah.” The Demon snorts. “I bet it didn’t hurt to do, though, did it?”

“I’d expect now,” Aziraphale says, still half in a giggle. “He wasn’t the brightest, really Minerva, I doubt Albus would fault you at all. And perhaps if you help him look for a professor, you could sway the tide to your favor?”

“Are you suggesting I use _favoritism?_ I’ve never met any of the applicants, Zira, I would _never.”_ She shakes her head. “

“You’re telling us you don’t have.” Crowley pauses to set his cup down — moving around so fluidly it looks like he might’ve slipped something warmer into his drink — and hiccups. “You don’t have anyone on your mind? No- no smart someone? No ssstudents you favored in your time.”

The next laugh she gives is a bit more sober, now. “No. Many of them have died, Anthony, you must understand. Not all of them could escape Lord Voldemort as young Mr. Potter managed.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale raises his drink and gives the air a toast to their memory, for a silent moment. “But speaking of Harry- what of his father’s friends? I knew dear Remus quite closely for an odd minute a few years ago. Wasn’t he more proficient than most?”

“Oh- yes, he was, but I doubt he’d much like to apply.”

“Oh, go on!” Crowley flicks a hand against the back of the couch and snorts. “We know you want to invite him back- tha’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? Let him see Harry. Hasn’t it been a while?”

Minerva just smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!! How was it! It took me AGES to get done with (the editing was a painful ordeal) so I hope it lives up to expectations. The next book will be accompanied by an announcement added to this one, so be on the lookout for that. See you later!


	9. Next installment announcement!

Y'all! I completely forgot to announce the next book in this series! Uh!!!!! It does exist. It's got two (about to be three) chapters as of right now. Sorry!

(Psst: Don't forget! My tumblr is @ Soupsword

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you're all enjoying this! Comments and kudos keep me going, and I would very much not be complaining if some were thrown my way,,, :)


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